Wednesday, November 27, 2013

A Poem on Thanksgiving

Abi Strait is the new 2013-2014 Micah Fellow at ECH!  She comes to us from Wisconsin via Lutheran Volunteer Corps in Delaware, where she worked at the Ministry of Caring. As a Fellow in the Life Together Program, she'll be splitting her time between ECH and our mother-parish, Christ Church Cambridge. 

This week I want to share a short poem about gratitude attributed to the mystic Rumi. May it help you celebrate the Thanksgiving holiday tomorrow, wherever you are!


Thanksgiving is sweeter than bounty itself.
One who cherishes gratitude does not cling to the gift!
Thanksgiving is the true meat of God’s bounty;
the bounty is its shell,
For thanksgiving carries you to the hearth of the Beloved.
Abundance alone brings heedlessness,
thanksgiving gives birth to alertness…
The bounty of thanksgiving will satisfy and elevate you,
and you will bestow a hundred bounties in return.
Eat your fill of God’s delicacies,
and you will be freed from hunger and begging.
- Rumi

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Discerning What to Discern

Abi Strait is the new 2013-2014 Micah Fellow at ECH!  She comes to us from Wisconsin via Lutheran Volunteer Corps in Delaware, where she worked at the Ministry of Caring. As a Fellow in the Life Together Program, she'll be splitting her time between ECH and our mother-parish, Christ Church Cambridge. 

My blog post today will be full of half-thoughts, I can already tell. So please bear with me.

My community members and I were talking last night about discernment - about finding a balance between things one likes/is good at and the opportunities one has to actively seek help and create justice in the world.

This is something I've struggled with a lot; and I'm sure I'm not alone in that. I've frequently heard advice from people I trust and admire about making your vocation the intersection of what you enjoy doing and where your skills are. And I do think there is a lot of truth in that. But my fear is: will this intersection for me be "enough"? Will it lead me to a career that serves and is fulfilling to anyone but myself? So I hesitate.

I don't want to go too far towards the other end either; to focus too hard on jobs with "maximum impact" and end up unhappy and bitter because it isn't something I have the skills or the passion for. And how could that type of person be the best one for the job at that point - wouldn't I end up doing a disservice to whatever cause or injustice I'm trying to serve by placing myself in that position? Again, I hesitate. 

So here I sit with a half-finished post, ending, once again, without a solid answer or solution. I don't know the secret to finding this balance between doing something one is good at and something that accomplishes more than making one's self content. I haven't even figured out what that will mean for myself yet. But I most certainly will write on this again, especially when I approach the end of my service year here and these questions become more pressing. And I welcome thoughts (fully formed or otherwise) from you all on this too.

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

A Morning Prayers Reflection: A Fuller, Unbidden Reality

The following is a reflection given by the Chaplain, the Rev. Luther Zeigler, at Morning Prayers on November 6, 2013, in Appleton Chapel in Memorial Church on Harvard Yard.

“Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and John, and led them up a high mountain apart, by themselves.  And Jesus was transfigured before them, and his clothes became dazzling white. . . .  Then a cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud there came a voice, ‘This is my Son, the beloved; listen to him!’”
Mark 9:2-4, 7-8.


In our Episcopal chaplaincy, our students have embarked upon a bold experiment this semester.  We’ve been inviting Episcopal faculty from across the University to join us every other week to study the Bible together.


Naturally, we meet secretly in the basement of our Chaplaincy offices, under the cloak of the evening, lest anyone in the broadly secular culture of Harvard discover this quaint little community of folk who still read the Bible with the hope of hearing God’s voice in it. 


It is rather thrilling, to be honest. We feel a little bit like the early Church before Constantine, seeking out a safe and inconspicuous place to practice our faith, not quite fearful of martyrdom, but nevertheless slightly anxious about how our more ‘enlightened’ friends on campus might perceive us. 


I say this half-jokingly, of course; but only half-jokingly.  It can be challenging to be a religious person at Harvard because the prevailing intellectual culture is so skeptical of what the German scholar, Rudolf Otto, called the numinous – the non-material, extraordinary, dimensions of reality that some of us cherish and regard as mysteriously sacred, but that others have a hard time seeing, much less believing in.  Never mind that no less legendary and hardheaded a Harvard philosopher as William James spent much of his scholarly life assessing the bona fides of what he famously called the “varieties of religious experience.”


As it happens, our Bible group’s text for our meeting tonight is the reading I offered at the outset of my talk – the Transfiguration story – which seems serendipitously apt to this discussion of faith in a skeptical world.  


According to Mark, Jesus takes his inner group of disciples up to the mountaintop, where they experience a strange and wondrous transfiguration of his person, a divine explosion of radiance.  Then, a voice from the heavens announces that this young rabbi, Jesus, is himself the beloved Son of God.


The skeptical, of course, dismiss the story a priori on the grounds that the regularities of the natural world do not allow for such miraculous appearances and voices, so contrary are they to our ordinary experience of the world.  Myself, I’m not so cynical as to foreclose the possibility that the “something more” that lurks at the heart of the universe might, from time to time, burst forth in surprising and compelling ways.  Indeed, I think something quite remarkable happened on that mountaintop that day to Jesus and his friends, although we’ll never know exactly what.


But the power of the Transfiguration story lies less in the accuracy of its historical detail than it does in its theological insistence that the world we live in has many layers, many dimensions, and that sometimes these dimensions, normally hidden, suddenly explode out of nowhere, challenging our conventional perception of the order of things.  In such moments, the veil of ordinariness that usually prevents us from seeing the inside of a situation is drawn back, and a fuller, unbidden reality is disclosed.  


Two quick stories to illuminate my point: The first is from my seminary days when we had the privilege of hosting Desmond Tutu for a day. Tutu told us about one of the darker moments during South Africa’s struggles against apartheid in the 1970s.  Mandela was in jail, the resistance movement was losing steam, and the white South African government was firmly in power.

In that moment, Tutu said, he felt hopeless.  Seeking relief from the despair, he wandered into the garden of a nearby theological college.  The date was August 6, the Feast of the Transfiguration, and in that garden where Tutu sat down to pray he came upon a simple wooden cross.  And as he gazed at the Cross, Tutu said it suddenly dawned on him how this wooden cross, once a ghastly instrument of death used by the most powerful empire on earth to crucify those who opposed its power, had been transfigured by Christ’s resurrection into its polar opposite, a symbol of enduring life and hope for billions of people around the globe.


That moment in the garden, Tutu told us, renewed his faith in what he calls the principle of transfiguration:  that nothing, no one, and no situation, is ‘untransfigurable,’ and that the whole of creation eagerly awaits its transfiguration, when it will be released from its bondage and share in the glorious liberty that God intends for all persons and all things.  And, of course, South Africa’s subsequent history testifies to this faith.


My second transfiguration story is rather different.  The first time in human history that a nuclear weapon was used by one nation against another also occurred on the sixth of August, the Feast of the Transfiguration in 1945, when the United States dropped an atomic bomb on the city of Hiroshima and decimated its people.  At the first testing of the bomb, J.  Robert Oppenheimer, one of its inventors, upon seeing the explosion, quoted the moment in the Bhagavad Gita, when the god Krishna reveals himself to Arjuna in his full, terrible glory:  “I have become Death, destroyer of worlds.”

Oppenheimer saw in that atomic explosion a transfiguration of scientific achievement into horror and death, just as Tutu saw in the cross a transfiguration of horror and death into a new hope for humanity.


These two transfiguration stories bracket for us a very real and urgent decision – a decision of faith. We can, on the one hand, open our eyes to the glory of God’s radiant self-giving nature, and allow ourselves to be transfigured by the purity of that love into agents for the renewal of this broken world.  Or, on the other, we can remain captive to the gods of this world and allow ourselves to be disfigured by a vain preoccupation with our own power, one that too often has been used to destroy.

This little story from the gospels presents us, then, not with some idle miracle tale; but rather with a moment of existential choice about who we are and what we want our world to become.  And, I dare say, it also may be why at least some Harvard students and faculty take a moment out of their week to listen for God’s voice in these sacred stories.


Let us pray:  “O God of light and life, lead us all up to the mountaintop, pull back the veil of pride that blinds us to your glory, transfigure us with the power of your radiant presence, and then send us back out into the world to be your agents of transfiguring love so that, through us, you might heal all who are hurting, make whole all that is broken, restore all that is lost, and renew the spirits of all who despair.  We pray these things in your holy name.  Amen.”


Together, let us pray with the words Jesus gave his disciples:


“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name, thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.  Give us this day our daily bread.  And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.  And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.  For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever.  Amen.”

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

A Norfolk Birthday

Abi Strait is the new 2013-2014 Micah Fellow at ECH!  She comes to us from Wisconsin via Lutheran Volunteer Corps in Delaware, where she worked at the Ministry of Caring. As a Fellow in the Life Together Program, she'll be splitting her time between ECH and our mother-parish, Christ Church Cambridge. 

I’m going to visit Ron, the incarcerated individual I write to and visit with as part of my work with HIPE (Harvard Interfaith Prison Education), tomorrow. As is our custom, I wrote to him early last week asking if the 31st would work for him and heard back a few days ago that, not only would it work, it would be his birthday and so he would especially love a visit. I hadn’t known his birthday when I worked to schedule the visit but was surprised and thrilled to learn of that happy ‘coincidence.’

Surprised and thrilled at first, at least.

My mind immediately started running around all the possibilities of gifts or tokens we could bring to mark that occasion. I could make cookies! Get balloons! Or a book relating to things we’ve talked about! But then, of course, reality had to set in and I realized that I couldn’t do any of that. When going in to see a prisoner, visitors can’t bring anything with them (except little gift cards for the vending machines allowing you to share a snack during your visit) so I couldn’t bring a gift for him with me. And there are strict regulations around what can be mailed to folks inside the prison - clearly sending him birthday cookies would be out of the question.

I felt the inequality of our situations very keenly then. Like Ron is Harry Potter - getting his uncle’s old socks for his birthday - and I am Dudley - flush with expensive things, surrounded by loved ones and taking all of it completely for granted. Realizing that I can’t help give Ron a good birthday, can’t at least making sure he gets more than Uncle Vernon’s discarded socks, was a bleak reminder of the contrast between our two lives. It made (and still makes) me feel helpless.

Not to say I’m not still so glad we’ll be able to give him a little company on his birthday. That, I think, while it may feel small compared to all the things I can’t do, will be a gift.

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Why are we in church?


This sermon was given on Sunday, 20 October 2013, at the Episcopal Chaplaincy at Harvard, by Emily Garcia, the Kellogg Fellow. The readings for the day on which the sermon is based can be found here.

As many of you already know, I teach Sunday school at an Episcopal church in Charlestown. My little kids always ask a lot of good questions. A few weeks ago I was fielding questions on the story of Creation. We had just dealt with the problem of frogs, who are both swimming and walking creatures and were therefore possibly created over the course of two days—when a spunky three-year-old raised her hand. “Miss Emily, I have a question toooo!” Fidgeting in her seat she said, “Well—why—why are we here?” Fearing I might have a big existential question on my hands, I clarified: “. . . In church?”  “Yes!” she said. “Why do we do this?”

That’s a good question! Why are we in church? Why do we come to church?
Why do YOU come to church? I come to church because I work here, but I’m sure there are other reasons too.

Sitting there on my kindergarten carpet square, I fumbled through my options, calculating how long it would take to explain the word “sanctification” to a three-year-old. In the end, as usual, I returned to my Evangelical childhood for the best answer. I told my student: “I think we come to church because we need to know who God is, and we need to know what to say about it.”

We need to know who God is. And we need to know what to say.

There are many good reasons why we come to church; they change week to week or season to season in our lives. But I do think these are two of the simplest and most constant reasons, repeated in the Scriptures and in almost every liturgy in the Book of Common Prayer. We need to know who God is, and we need to know what to say.

Maybe I shouldn’t say “knowing God”—that makes it seem like a discrete piece of information. Better to say, “coming to know God,” or “seeing what God reveals of God’s self to us,” or “re-learning and re-learning and re-learning who God is.” In the same way that we grow out of our five-year-old understanding of the world into a more complex twenty-year-old and sixty-year-old understanding of the world, so our understanding of God changes as we grow.

And maybe I shouldn’t say that WE have to learn who God is, as if God were simply an object of our attention, like the meter in a sonnet or a type of amoeba. We know who God is not by studying him, but by wrestling with him—and God wrestles back. God is constantly at work in us, providing us with many, often difficult—often awkward, often uncomfortable—opportunities to know him. Some of these leave us wounded. But these are places where we can learn who God is.

Scholar and commentator Gerhard von Rad [in his Biblical Interpretation in Preaching] says that although this story of Jacob has “narrative elements of great antiquity,” probably part of a local cultic tradition, in its place in the book of Genesis and the story of Jacob, it is actually a story about Israel’s and our relationship to God. He says, “She [Israel] has set forth her relationship to God in the picture of that nocturnal struggle with the God who feigns a frightful mien yet promises an ultimate bestowal of blessing. In the vessel of that [more ancient] story, Israel is letting us see something of her experience with God, an actual experience of her being guided by him.” Genesis explains the name “Israel” as a name for a person who has striven with God and prevailed, but actually the etymology of “Israel” breaks into the phrase “GOD strives.” We strive, God strive with us. This is how we know him.

We wrestle with God in prayer, too, like the widow in Luke’s parable. The unjust judge couldn’t stand being bothered by this persistent widow, full of moxie, but I think God rejoices in persistence. Luke says the parable is about praying always, and not losing heart. Surely this is another way that we come to know God, from constant conversation with him.

We need to know who God is, and we learn from wrestling, we learn from prayer, and we learn from the holy mystery of Communion at the altar, and from the mystery of communion with each other, God revealing himself in our discussions, disagreements, differing experiences. Being a Christian alone isn’t FULLY being a Christian, as we need to whole body of Christ to help us learn who God is.

So we come to Church because we need to know who God is.

And we need to know what to say. Knowing God and being silent is not an option, as we hear in this letter to Timothy, as well as throughout our own Book of Common Prayer.

In today’s Collect, we prayed, “God, please preserve the works of your mercy, SO THAT we can persevere with steadfast faith in the confession of your Name.” The letter to Timothy says that all Scripture is inspired and is therefore useful—for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, so that everyone who belongs to God may be proficient, equipped for every good work.” In case Timothy didn’t get it, Paul made it simple: Proclaim the message; be persistent whether the time is favorable or unfavorable; convince, rebuke, and encourage, with the utmost patience in teaching.” In our confession of sin we ask God to forgive us “so that we may delight in your will, and walk in your ways—to the glory of your name.” In the collect for Purity, which we hear every Sunday, we ask God to cleanse the thoughts of our hearts, so that we “may worthily magnify your holy Name.” The older definition of “magnify” means to extol, to lift up, to bring respect or esteem to something. But I also like the more modern literal meaning—“magnify” like a magnifying glass. To magnify God’s holy Name makes me think that I should look at it very closely, that I should make it so big as to be comprehensible to me and others.

So: Confession of God’s name, training in righteousness, proclaim the message in favorable and unfavorable times, be patient in teaching, glorify God’s name, magnify God’s holy name. It sounds like we’re supposed to DO something with this knowledge of God that we’ve got! We need to know who God is, and then, we need to know what to say.

Don’t worry, I’m not gonna preach about converting all the heathen, or starting our own angry talk show about what God wants for America. I don’t find either of those options to be at all necessary or at all compelling.

But I do think we are supposed to magnify God’s holy name. I do believe that through Scripture and the community of the church, “every person who belongs to God can be proficient, and equipped for every good work.” 

This is necessary for the world because there are people who are in despair and need to know that there can be hope and meaning in life; there are people who are hurt and need to know that God loves them, that we love them; there are people who are vulnerable and need to be taken care of; there are people who need to be rebuked, for their cruel or harmful behavior; there are those who simply need to be encouraged in the hard work they do in the world. People need to know God’s Holy Name, because God’s Holy Name is Love.

And praise God, there are many ways to show the world who God is. I happen to be one of those people who likes to talk about God all the time, but this is just one way. We can speak God’s name over and over again throughout the day without ever saying it aloud. 
When we gently, tactfully defend someone who’s being gossiped about.
When we play devil’s advocate to a potentially harmful philosophy or viewpoint.
When we give to the homeless, the hungry, or to anyone in need.
When we mention that we go to Church—and that we like it.
When we bow in our heads in a short silent prayer before we eat in a public place.
When we show ourselves to be competent intelligent academics and then casually mention that we’re also Christians.
When we tell a friend that we’ll be praying for them.
When we have a respectful, curious, attentive conversation about religion with anyone, regardless of what they do or do not believe.
When we are loving, joyful, patient, kind, good, faithful, gentle, or self-controlled—when we show these fruits of the Spirit, we are magnifying God’s Holy Name.

Because the “glory of God’s name” is not the institution of the church (although that’s pretty cool)—the glory of God’s name is love. All kinds of love and compassion manifested in all different kinds of ways, inside and outside the Church.

This is why we come to Church. We need to know who God is, and we need to know what to say.

All Hallow's Eve at The Crossing


Isaac Everett is a Postulant for Holy Orders in the Diocese of MA, a musician, song-writer, and author. He's working currently with The Crossing, "the new emerging church worship community at St. Paul's Episcopal Cathedral Church." We invited him to share with us about an upcoming event that's open to young adults in the Diocese.

Hello, Harvard!

A few months ago, a group of us at The Crossing were sitting around dreaming about the coming year, and we kept returning to the idea of reaching out to other, similar communities within the diocese to make friends. As a primarily young-adult congregation, we really long to be part of a larger community of folks who want to get together for worship, fun, and justice-making.

So, we began reaching to groups like the Harvard and BU chaplaincies, along with the young adult group at St James, and conspired together to start building relationships between our people! We figured an easy way to do it would be to get together a couple times throughout the year, each of us taking turns hosting, hoping that we'd see some of the same faces and build friendships. (For example, we'll be joining you for the Walk for Hunger later this year.)

Our first event, though, will be next week, on Halloween, and I really hope you can make it! We'll be throwing a pretty awesome All Hallow's Eve liturgy, followed by a dance party on the steps of the cathedral.

If you're not familiar with the Feast of All Hallows', it basically goes like this: if you believe that the literal body of Christ is broken on the communion altar (which you probably don't, but stick with me), then it follows that the celebration of the Eucharist occurs simultaneously with Christ's death on the cross. By the transitive property, that means that all celebrations of the Eucharist across all time and space happen simultaneously, and when we gather at the altar, we're gathering with everyone who ever has (and who ever will) stand at the altar. 

All Hallow's connects us with our past and our future, celebrating our connection with the saints who've made us who we are and the saints for whom we're still yearning. It's a way to honor and remember our past while also casting a prophetic vision for our future.

So to honor this communion of saints, we'll be dressing up as our favorite saints: past, present, or future. You can come dressed as St Augustine or St Clare of Assisi. You can come dressed as your grandmother or your kindergarten teacher. You can come dressed as the first female pope or the first church planter on Mars. 

Or you can come dressed as yourself. Whatever you do, we hope you come to dance, eat, worship, celebrate and make friends.

Isaac Everett 

PS 6pm at 138 Tremont Street, just off the Park St stop on the red line

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Next Steps

Abi Strait is the new 2013-2014 Micah Fellow at ECH!  She comes to us from Wisconsin via the Lutheran Service Corps in Delaware, where she worked at the Ministry of Caring. As a Fellow in the Life Together Program, she'll be splitting her time between ECH and our mother-parish, Christ Church Cambridge. 

I’ve been thinking about next steps recently. An intimidating line of thought at any time, but feels especially so as I’m only just beginning to feel “settled” in my new Boston life. As I look at potential grad school programs and think about possible careers, a snippet of poetry comes to mind frequently. It’s source, “The Summer Day” by Mary Oliver, is a frequently quoted poem, especially the last two lines (which, of course, are the ones running through my head so often). As I can’t offer any stunning insights or wise conclusions on planning for The Future, I want to share Oliver’s poem here in the hopes that it helps others figuring out their next steps as it has for me.


Mary Oliver’s “The Summer Day”

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?