Eucharist and Wedding Renewal

Eucharist and Wedding Renewal in Glendalough 7.15.12 On Sunday, Cathy, Chad, Jana, Kris, Robbie, and I celebrated the Mass in the ruins of St. Mary’s Chapel, just outside the monastery walls. The tiny chapel, twelve feet wide by thirty feet long, was probably built in the early 10th or 11th Century. The grounds surrounding the church were filled with small cross headstones and graves three feet in length. This was the church where unbaptized babies and children were brought for burial. Nuns or female priests were the only clergy serving the grieving families at St. Mary’s. The families of the unbaptized were sent to St. Mary’s because the Roman Church told them their unbaptized children could not be buried in consecrated ground, in other words, their children were not Christians, and their eternal resting place was in perilous question. Admittedly, it is impossible for me to image that the Church could turn away a parent holding her dead child in her arms, telling her the child of her womb could not be buried in consecrated ground. We decided to celebrate Sunday morning Mass in the ruins of this chapel to revere the work of those female priests and to celebrate the blessings of our own children. I brought my mother’s green hanky and used it as the corporal for the Eucharist. Her presence, now gone in the physical sense, is always with me in the spirit. She would have loved being with us in the misty joy of the Irish morning gathered around a stone altar in a thousand year-old ruin. I poured wine into a plastic cup and the freshly baked brown communion bread had been a part of the morning’s breakfast. We chanted the psalm, heard the gospel, prayed for the people, and shared a sign of peace. The Spirit, the lush green scenery, the land of Ireland, our walk, inspired the Eucharistic prayer. Then we wandered through the cemetery and the monastery ruins. We took pictures, wondered about the stories of the people buried under foot, and tried to imagine living in the sixth century. From the monastery we walked two kilometers up to the Lake of the Angels where Saint Kevin resided in his aesthetic cell hone out of rock ten feet above the water. On the opposite side of the lake from the monk’s cell we found a spot by the lake that I was familiar with from previous visits. Saint Kevin’s cell is off limits, so in order to see it you have to know what you are looking for and the only vantage point is the opposite side of the lake. We had to hike down a fifty-foot slippery trail to a lakeside stone, which jutted out into the lake waters about ten feet. The large stone was a perfect place from which to see the cell. My intention when leaving home was to find this special spot from my past. And I had brought rosaries for just this moment. From here, I was able to lie down on the stone, lean over its edge and dip our rosaries into the revered lake. It was here on the stone by the Lake of the Angels that Kris and Robbie decided to renew their wedding vows. Part of their pilgrimage to Ireland was the opportunity to share an intimate moment of renewal with each other and with friends in this land of mystical passion. To conclude the ritual, I tied the couple’s wrist together with a rosary rope that had been blessed at Eucharist and ‘baptized’ in the lake. It was a joyous and teary moment for the participants and the witnesses. I am on this pilgrimage to discern what the Spirit is saying. This morning the Spirit was speaking clearly into my soul that my calling as priest is stronger than ever. But how that ministry looks continues to evolve. My dream last night had me making a sign that read, “Called to Walk the Wicklow Way.” So, I am on the next leg of the pilgrimage, down the path towards Glenmalure.

Holy Glendalough

Some places I have seen and it was good. And some of those places I would like to visit again, to see something I missed the first time. Then there is Glendalough, the land I am irresistibly drawn to over and over again. It’s a mere eleven-mile walk from Roundwood to Glendalough. The terrain is fairly gentle, a few hills to negotiate, mostly grass filled fields with sheep nearby. The sharpest incline is the finale that leads to a stunning view of the holy valley where the ruins of Saint Kevin’s monastery lay nestled. From our viewpoint we could see the sixth-century stone chapel with its rare rock roof, built to sustain the Norsemen’s fiery arrows. Standing over the chapel like a beacon of light to the weary pilgrim is Saint Kevin’s watchtower. Above the monastery grounds are the two Lake of Angels where Kevin kept his stone cell and where he stood in the icy water to pray while ravens built nests in his hair. We stopped at this point to take in the majesty, first with the soul and then the camera. I stepped away to allow the others to take pictures and I was overcome with emotion and a few tears. This is my fourth time to Glendalough, second by foot. I have been here on pilgrimage, each time at some crossroads in my life. At this particular juncture I’m not fully sure what the optional roads are because the paths lying before me are not physical options, like career or vocation, no these choices are related to spiritual paths, more mystical and elusive to discern. Maybe, for my current pilgrimage this is why Glendalough is a beginning and not the destination. I have walked from Dublin to Glendalough with trusted companions, true friends. For them, Glendalough is the destination and they will be leaving tomorrow for a few last tourist days in Ireland before heading home. For me, I begin walking the next twenty-four days alone. Cathy will be driving ahead, scouting out a place to stay and finding the best pub while I make the twelve to twenty miles a day through the Irish countryside, praying, thinking, and observing what the Spirit is saying. And I will watching for the raven.

White Hill

Oh, what luck! We get to walk across White Hill on Friday the 13th. From Knockree to Roundwood is about fourteen miles, a nice stretch of the legs. The climb is steady and at times can suck the wind of you. Walking over Djouce (don’t pronounce the D) affords a glorious view of the Powerscourt waterfall of 250 meters— except today when we were walking in the cloudy mist bringing a haunting feel to the hike. Our view was limited to six feet and we could only hear the waterfall. The trek took us above the waterfalls in order to cross the Dargle River. The bridge had been washed out in November, leaving a quickly constructed replacement over the rapids. Crossing a roughly made bridge gave a foreboding to White Hill. I had crossed this treeless high point of bog in Ireland six years ago. That particular day the gale force wind blew the rain sideways, making it a monumental struggle to see my fellow walkers a few feet ahead. Today the wind was howling, though less than my last journey. However, the rain was more severe and because this has been Ireland wettest summer on record, the trail was a running stream of mud. To say the least, staying afoot was at times like riding a skateboard over rocks downhill. At one point, my two partners stopped to tie down their ponchos. It was a feat of no small proportion to keep our rain gear intact and tied in place so it didn’t beat us in the face and entangle around our packs. We were soaked and getting wetter, if that is possible. We finally up the mountain for the two-mile walk across railroad ties. The top of White Hill is a bald bog, inhabited only by a few daring sheep. The bog was so saturated that the sheep had taken to walking on the man-made path. The trail consists of two railroad ties strapped side-to-side and covered with chicken wire, giving you twelve-inches of walking space. I can’t even imagine the tricky work it took to construct this long balance beam. Carrying a backpack, using a walking stick for balance, battling the cold rain, thrashing wind, and perilous walking path can test the best of hikers. On this day we prevailed. Not without a good drenching. I think the only thing on me that wasn’t wet were my feet. My raingear failed. But, my boots were victorious. We still had a good four-mile walk down the Wicklow Way to Roundwood. I felt a sense of accomplishment today. Teenagers and folks older than me travel White Hill every day—so, it’s not necessarily a great physical achievement that was providing with my good feeling. I believe, for me today, walking over White Hill was a spiritual affirmation of my choice to walk Ireland coast-to-coast. At fifty-eight years old, I am still learning about my inner self and my body. I have much still to discover. For that, I am thankful and ready to keep walking.

Dublin to Knockree

Dublin to Knockcree Day One of the Wicklow Way It was a rare day of beautiful Irish sunshine and mild summer breezes. It was a perfect day for us to begin walking the Wicklow Way. The path begins in Marlay Park, a lush field of grass. The park is a lovely playground for children and adults alike. Surrounded by tall forest pines, the open area is the size of four football fields, a varietal of green oasis in the suburbs of southwestern Dublin. To begin our pilgrimage, we offered prayers read a piece from John O’Donohue about the journey becoming a sacred thing. Julie O’Brien had given us the poetic narrative as a means of sending on our way with her prayers. We walked more than a mile to make our way out of the park. We made a final “pit stop” at the parks golf course knowing we wouldn’t see a proper toilet until arriving at the Knockree Youth Hostel fourteen miles and seven hours later. Just as we were returning to the path, two young adult women from Israel stopped to ask if they were on the right trek to the Wicklow Way. We assured them they were on the right path. They stopped to use the facilities and we keep walking. Leaving the park we started the 1600-meter climb out of Dublin. The ascent is gentle, winding up the lush sides of the Dublin Mountains. The first three miles we encountered several locals out for a day’s hike. This early part of the Wicklow Way is intertwined with the Dublin Mountain Way, a series of day walks. At one juncture we must have missed the sign marker for the Wicklow Way and got onto the Dublin Way. But after a mile, we stumbled back onto a Wicklow Way marker taking us to the top of mountain. Turning back we could see a spectacular view of the bay of Dublin and the entire sun splashed city. We started our descent onto a log rock path cut across a treeless mountainside covered with a dark green impassable shrub growing in the bog. A mile across the barren looking landscape we came to a T-junction with a signpost pointing two directions for the Wicklow Way and the Dublin Mountain Way. We debated which path to take and finally decided on the turn to the right based on the arrows. About a hundred yards down this path we met the two girls from Israel walking up the path. They saved us from walking probably a few miles out of the way. Ah, thanks be to God for “chance” encounters. We walked through the cloudy mist hanging over us like a protective wrap and across the top of the Glencree Mountains through the dark forest and down along the barren landscapes where trees once stood, now harvested. Ravens arrived at a most needed time to offer encouraging words. My companions, Chad and Jana kept telling each other our pictures fail to capture what we have seen, and of course my words do still less. Now we are on this morning to walk across Djouice Mountain and the infamous White Hill.

Why Pilgrimage?

I have been asked repeatedly why I am going on a pilgrimage—actually it’s “Why would want to do such a thing?” My family and friends have asked me out of curiosity. Acquaintances question as if to check and see if this is the deal breaker in our fragile relationship, as in, “Are you crazy?” There are the Irish folk who are simply straightforward and ask, “Are you daft?” The “thing” they all question, is walking 360 miles across Ireland. I’ve had three friends walk the Camino de Santiago and each told me it was something they felt they had to do, as if the Way, was calling out to them. I could say the same for Ireland itself, I feel as if the land is beckoning me, as if I belong here on the isle of the forty shades of green. Ireland is, after all, my mother’s ancestral homeland. However, I think pilgrimage is about more than just the place, whether the Camino, or the Wicklow Way, Spain or Ireland, there is something about the pace and the mystery of the walk. To walk with a backpack is to slow down. The pace averages about thirty minutes a mile. At first, carrying a pack, weighing about twenty-five pounds, takes some getting used to—after a few days, you feel as if you can’t walk without it. The pace and the weight provide time to think, pray, and observe. Walking the way allows you to see things you would never experience otherwise, the landscape, the flowers, the wildlife, meeting people along the roadside. To walk is to experience the land. When it rains, you get wet and you keep walking. When it’s hot, you sweat, and you continue. When the wind blows, you feel the intensity and draw upon your own strength to lean into the wind. To walk is to taste the air, feel life, and to commune with the terrain of mother earth. The mystery of the walk, now that is the allure fetching me to take on the ache of weary feet, the pain of a tired back, and the changing uncertainty of the elements. “What will happen?” is the unknown, the adventure, and the excitement. Walking the Way is not the challenge of climbing the Alps, but it has its own set of risks. But, the real “What will happen?” is the question I ask of my inner being, “What will happen to my soul?” Will my worldview change? Maybe I could even be so bold as to ask if I will be transformed by the experience? An elder friend in my church was intuitive enough to tell me not to change, “We like the old Gil,” she said. Her concern is honest and forth telling. Both she and I know, I will change, something will be different within me, and the old Gil will become the new Gil. How? I don’t know. It’s mystery. I started planning this pilgrimage a few years ago, picking the time, plotting the course, collecting my gear, and training my body. Most recently, I have spent time praying that I will be aware and attentive to the experience. I start walking in the next few hours. I am excited. Admittedly, I am a bit nervous. My anxiety doesn’t have anything to do with the physical risk. The anxious feeling I have is, what if I walk 360 miles and the only “thing” that happens to me is my feet hurt. I guess I’ll have to take the chance and find out.

Day before Pilgrimage

Dublin, Ireland 7.11.12 Tomorrow begins my pilgrimage. I’m walking Ireland Coast to Coast from Dublin to Kerry about 360 miles. Cathy and I are in Dublin enjoying a few days in this lovely city that we adore. Having been a few times it’s nice to be able to check out some of the smaller venues and museums off the beaten path like the Writer’s Museum. Writer’s write by writing, everyday, no matter what, where, or when. Carrying a journal, making constant notes, capturing character traits, events, mental pictures—especially in a place like Ireland, is a must because this place is a writer’s cornucopia. Dublin is an international city with the distinctive ancient culture. Breathing in the soul of the past and present is intoxicating. Admittedly, I’m very excited about beginning the walk tomorrow. And, I am anxious a bit. I am 58-years-old after all. I need for my body to cooperate. I’ve trained, prepared, worked on my mental outlook, and now it’s time to start. My prayer is St. Patrick’s Breastplate—God be my ever companion and always present.

Are you daft?

Are you daft? When I answered the phone at five o’clock in the morning the voice on the other end of the line asked if he got me out of bed. “No,” I said, I’ve been up about fifteen minutes. And then the young man began to apologize profusely in a lovely Irish brogue. He was calling to confirm my booking for our first two nights in Dublin. Then he asked if I needed any further booking in Ireland. I told him not at the moment. “Kind of short trip, eh?” “I’m walking coast to coast, from Dublin to Kerry,” I said. “Are you daft?” he laughed and then apologized, telling him he was bicycling the Ring of Kerry the weekend we arrive. “May I ask you why you would do such a thing?” “It’s a spiritual thing, I guess. Just something I feel I have to do,” I said. He said, “I wish you the best and I honestly hope to meet you.” Beginning July 12, 2012 I will be walking over 360 miles, starting out of Dublin on the Wicklow Way and then east along four other historic paths. It will take me twenty-seven days including taking Sundays to rest. For me, the pilgrimage is indeed a spiritual journey. Not to find God, but to be with God. Walking six to ten hours a day through the Isle of the forty shades of green, I am anticipating an experience, a presence of the seen and the unseen, and a connection of the conscious to the unconscious. I have no idea what I will encounter. My past experience has convinced me, though, that I will have the knowledge something fresh in my soul, in my spirit, in the place where the mystical is breathed in like the smoke of an ancient pipe. A holy woman told me last week I was at a “Y” in the road of my life’s journey. She said I would not know which road I would take until I faced the choice on my pilgrimage. I pray I will recognize the moment, and hear what the Spirit is saying. The Rev. Julie O’Brien gave me a small journal for the trip. I have asked whoever would like to write their name in the journal. And I have committed to praying for each individual on the journey. When I feel it is the right moment, I will pray for each person by name and I will write in the journal the location I prayed for him or her. I am carrying many of you with me on the pilgrimage of life. Here is my intended path. I will try stay connect via Facebook and my blog. Blessings and slainte! Wicklow Way 86 miles/7 days (one day off) 7.12 Dublin to Glencree 13 miles 7.13 Glencree to Roundwood 16 miles 7.14 Roundwood to Glendalough 10 miles 7.15 Sunday off in Glendalough 7.16 Glendalough to Glenmalure 10 miles 7.17 Glenmalure to Tinahely 22 miles 7.18 Tinahely to Shillelagh 15 miles 7.19 Shillelagh to Clonegal 11 miles South Leinster Way 63 miles/4 days (one day off) 7.20 Clonegal to Borris 15 miles 7.21 Borris to Inistioge 17 miles 7.22 Sunday off in Inistioge 7.23 Inistioge to Mullinavat 18 miles 7.24 Mullinavat to Carrick on Suir 13 miles East Munster Way 43 miles/3 days 7.25 Currick on Suir to Clonmel 18 miles 7.26 Clonmel to Newcastle 11 miles 7.27 Newcastle to Clogheen 14 miles Blackwater Way – Avondhu 47 miles/4 days (one day off) 7.28 Clogheen to Araglin 13 miles 7.29 Sunday off 7.30 Araglin to Fermoy 17 miles 7.31 Fermoy to Killavullan 16 miles 8.1 Killavullan to Bweeng Cross 20 miles (staying in Mallow) Blackwater Way – Duhallow 43 miles/3 days 8.2 Bweeng to Mushera car park 18 miles (stay in Millstreet) 8.3 Millstreet to Shrone 14 miles 8.4 Shrone to Muckcross 12.5 miles 8.5 Sunday off The Kerry Way 67 miles/4 days 8.6 Muckcross to Black Valley 12.5 miles 8.7 Black Valley to Glenbeigh 22 miles 8.8 Glenbeigh to Cohersiveen 17.5 miles 8.9 Cohersiveen to Portmagee 15.5 miles 8.9 – 8.16 Kildysart with Father Mike O’Grady 8.16 – 8.20 Dublin

Church not working?

LeeAnne Watkins writes honestly about the failure of the attraction model of church. In the Christian Century, “This Just Isn’t Working: When People Don’t Show up,” she gets at the heart of what a lot of mainline and even Evangelical churches are facing, it appears we have reached the end of the an age where a significant number of those who attend church services want any serious religious education through the means of attending a class. The people in her growing congregation are more than eager to attend worship, feed the hungry, and get involved in other social justice projects. They just don’t have time for weekly or even periodic religious education. So, she stopped making the offering. Good for her. Why prop up something that is dying for the sake of “trying harder?” I personally have no use for the attractional or program model of doing church. I hesitate to suggest the average congregant doesn’t desire some deeper study of scripture or spiritual writing. From my own observation, a fair number of people who attend our church do want some sort of guidance in their spiritual life. What they may not have time for is the traditional model of delivery. Maybe today’s churchgoers would be more willing to engage in some theological conversation if it were offered to them via the Internet. What about a Facebook Bible study? It might be worth a try? But, should our church offer a Facebook or Internet Bible study for the sake of, what? The better model, I suggest, is leading by spiritual direction. Whenever the pastor has the opportunity, one-on-one, a small group standing in a corridor, a phone call, an email, and of course during the sermon, she should consider the time as a moment for spiritual direction—the most needed form of spiritual education. While the pastor may be forced into roles of administration, fund raising, and landscaper, he must be the spiritual guide, religious mentor, rabbi, priest, and shaman to his people. The Reverend Watkins may have more opportunities to offer religious education than she realizes? The article is worth the ten minute read. Found at http://www.christiancentury.org/article/2012-05/just-isn-t-working.

Christianity After Religion

Diana Butler Bass’s most recent book Christianity After Religion is probably worth the time to read but I’m not sure worth the money you might spend, maybe if you get a good deal in whatever e-version you read. She is an Episcopalian so as a fellow Catholic-lite church member I do appreciate her work and am thankful she is offering some hope for the mainline church. My struggle with this book is it seems she does not understand the constraints imposed on the local Episcopal clergy in designing worship. She grew up a Methodist where the congregational pastor has a fair amount of freedom in preparing the weekly Sunday worship service. Evidently, she thinks the priest of her Episcopal parish has the same latitude in constructing the Sunday liturgy. Unless the Episcopal bishop of her diocese is very liberated on what happens during the Sunday main service it is hard to imagine that her bishop would be comfortable with some of her suggestions. Not that I disagree with her, because I do not, I like and appreciate her progressive theology—however, she seems to suggest the local priest can replace the Nicene Creed with the Masai Creed or something else less orthodox. I have used the Masai Creed, written by an African community to reflect their local understanding of Jesus, for non-Sunday worship—however, most bishops would not be permissive of using such a radical non-orthodox creedal statement for Sunday morning’s regular fare. (The use of the Masai Creed is just one example.) Christianity After Religion would get a lot of traction as a book study in most moderately centralist theological Episcopal churches. I also imagine many mainline churches would find her ideas palatable. The emergent folks have probably already incorporated some of her thoughts into their weekly offering. Her incarnational theology reflective of the Celtic influence is refreshing from someone respected by the mainline market. While she never mentions, J. Phillip Newell and Pelagius, her earthy understanding of how to interpret scripture is replete throughout the book. She is courageous to speak to those churches practicing the “same old thing” but supposedly begging for new ways to attract the “spiritual but not religious” into Sunday attendance. How she tolerates their questions at conferences (she is an excellent story teller), well, I respect her patience. Diana Butler Bass writes for the mainline church desiring to survive at least another forty years. She looks to the past for encouragement while casting a realistic sociological light for those desiring any hope for the liturgical church of tomorrow. Okay, I take back my opening line—her book is worth the price of admission.

Ouch

Trinity Wall Street announced the closing of their conference center in Cornwall, CT. Due to financial reasons the center will be closed in November. The conference center has been the home to the Clergy Leadership Project. I am an alum of CLP having spent four weeks at the conference center. The Trinity Conference Center is a beautiful retreat house located along the Housatonic River, a perfect location to rest, reflect, learn, and fellowship. The staff was extremely hospitable and the cuisine was creative, healthy and at times exotic, a vegetarian’s heaven. The closing reminds me of the difficult decisions the Episcopal Church continues to face. An easy argument can be made that the church should not be engaged in such endeavors as retreat centers. The mission of the church is to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, offer water to the thirsty, visit those who are sick and in prison, and to embrace the alien in our land. However, if the church is being fully hospitable in these ways, then I suppose it could also give rest to the weary at retreat centers. While not necessarily a similar situation, after Mt. Calvary monastery and retreat center was destroyed by fire in 2008, the Order of Holy Cross decided to not rebuild. Even now, the future of the Order’s presence in Santa Barbara, California is being considered tenuous. Institutional change is inevitable, even necessary, and mostly desirable but always difficult. Closing camps, retreat centers, monasteries, schools and churches will always be heart-wrenching decisions. I must trust to God these types of decisions will only be made after tearful prayers and long periods of discernment. I am not one of those Chicken Little types who runs around looking in the sky and shouting that the Episcopal Church will die in the next forty years (pick your own number, I use forty because it gets the most banter due to its biblical connection, I guess). I am, though, convinced the Church will undergo a continual firing process that feels like death until it finally reaches the point of finding itself so far into the margins that it then can live out the radical call of the subversive Jesus. The Episcopal Church, and any church for that matter, will retain only the part of its identity ordained by God and relevant to followers of the Way. I wonder what are those pieces and parts of identity that are found necessary by God and the faithful? Jesus said in order for us to live we must die. Albeit it painful, maybe we shouldn’t be so afraid of the process of death? It will bring about resurrection.

An Imam, a Priest, and a Rabbi go to church

An imam, a priest, and rabbi go to worship service. How do you know whether they are in a mosque, a church, or a synagogue? Depends on the day of the week. Okay, I know, it’s a really bad joke. But, last Sunday an imam, a priest, and a rabbi were together in worship at St. Augustine’s. Sunday May 6, 2012 St. Augustine’s Episcopal Parish, Tempe participated in National Pluralism Sunday by hosting Imam Yahya Hendi and Rabbi Gerald Serotta as co-preachers. Later that afternoon St. Augustine’s was the site of a clergy conversation led by Hendi and Serotta focusing on problematic texts from the Abrahamic traditions. Imam Yahya Hendi, founder and president of Clergy Beyond Borders, is the Muslim chaplain at Georgetown University, the first United States university to hire a full-time Muslim chaplain. Imam Hendi also serves as the Muslim Chaplain at the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, MD. In Imam Hendi's message during the worship service he said, "All of us Americans, in general, and committed Jews, Christians and Muslims, in particular, must find within their own traditions sound reasons to value other faiths without compromising their own. They must realize that what happened on Sept. 11th cannot divide us. We should not tolerate voices of divisiveness. We must use Sept. 11th to explore the best in each of us. Let us keep in mind that Diversity is in itself not a bad thing provided it occurs within unity, cooperation and coordination. So let us all chose to be united with all of our differences for the best of this nation and all of humanity." Rabbi Gerald Serotta served as a university chaplain and Hillel Rabbi for 28 years, the last twenty at The George Washington University where he was Chair of the Board of Chaplains. He held the position of Senior Rabbinic Scholar-in-Residence at the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism, working on issues of globalization and economic justice from a Jewish perspective. He is currently the Chair of Rabbis for Human Rights-North America and the executive director of Clergy Beyond Borders. Rabbi Serotta led the afternoon dialogue reviewing a few sample texts that typically cause concern from within and without each of the three traditions. Admittedly, those present representing Christianity, Islam, and Judaism were of the more liberal persuasions among their particular faiths. Texts from the Koran included those about the treatment of women, perspectives on war, and Islamic views of Christians and Jews. The Hebrew text concerned the Jews being the chosen people of God and the particularity of the land of Israel. The Christian text discussed the exclusivity of the statement by Jesus in the Gospel of John regarding he is the only way to heaven. The apparent common thread throughout the discussions was whether each particular faith had a willingness to find room within the texts and their specific tradition for an open interpretation. None of those present for the discussion represented a fundamentalist position. Honestly, my observation from attending several interreligious events is fundamentalist rarely attend these gatherings. The work of continuing the momentum from such a gathering is difficult to sustain. The question is how to stay connected and continue the dialogue. My opinion is the answer lies in relationships. This event was brought together because my colleague and friend Imam Ahmad Sqheiret put together an entire weekend gathering, including worship at the mosque and synagogue, asking our church to host the Sunday event. He and I have worked together at several such events, attended workshops, and maintain a personal connection. I see Islam through Ahmad’s eyes and through his heart. He is a faithful man of the One Holy God. He is kind, gentle, compassionate, curious, understanding, generous and loved by his congregation and by many in this city. I understand his tradition because he shares his faith with me and he listens to my perspective of Christianity. Together, we seek to serve God and our neighbors. I am thankful Ahmad is my neighbor and I am his. Thanks be to God.

Ode to my mother

Loretta Young Stafford funeral service
3.17.12 – St. Patrick’s Day
First Southern Baptist Church, Buckeye

[Esther 4:9-17 Mordecai said to Esther, “Who knows but that you have come to royal position for such a time as this?” And Esther replied, “I will go to the king, even though it is against the law. And if I perish, I perish.”]

In my parent’s home, my mom had a room where she would sew, read, write, and ponder life. My dad said, if you didn’t know my mom you could just sit in her room and look around, you would get to know her quickly.

The closets are stuffed with sewing, craft and crochet materials. My mom could make beautiful clothes, gorgeous table coverings, and stunning shawls.

The walls in her room are covered with pictures. There are pictures of her revered grandfather, her beloved parents, her cherished aunt Grace, her loving sisters, her brother who made her laugh when he sang “Nature Boy,” pictures of nieces and nephews, pictures of her adored grandchildren, their families and of course the great grandson. And yes pictures of her children, a lot of pictures of my sister Dinah, I might add. And of course, wonderful pictures of her soul mate, my dad. They were married 63 years.

Sitting in her room, I was reminded of her many stories. There were lots of stories about her mother, Allie Pauline, the tiny woman with shocking red hair. Pauline left this world at the age of thirty-five. My mother and her family had to work hard to survive in Western Oklahoma. Mom loved working side-by-side her mother, whether is was picking cotton or cooking. While they were at home one evening, my grandmother thought some crows, sitting on a nearby power line were mocking her with their incessant cawing. So Pauline got out the double barrel shotgun, marched towards the crows and simultaneously unloaded both barrels, knocking her to the ground. The crows were undisturbed, and continued their taunting. So my grandmother took to tossing rocks at them, with a little more success.

Mom had that same fire and determination. Mom had watched more baseball, basketball, football, and volleyball games than the most ardent of fans. She watched her father play, her brother play, her sisters play, her husband play, her son play, her grandson play, her granddaughter play, and countless nieces and nephews play ball. Add on that the games I coached and the games she saw of the Diamondbacks and the Suns, whew. I tried to make a rough guess of how many games she personally watched and I finally gave up. Trust me, it was a lot of games. And my mom could really cheer. I mean cheer at the top of her lungs.

I think the only time my mother was ever really mad at me was when I wasn’t giving her grandson enough playing time at Grand Canyon.

Family legend has it, when I was nine, playing little league, there was a women sitting in front of my mom. This woman was telling her friend how obnoxious that one kid was behaving. Of course, that was me. Eventually, my mom had had enough, so she dumped her large soda on the head of that women, never apologizing.

For my mom, you could cheer for your team, but not against her team, and especially not against anyone in her family.

The shelves in mom’s room are also packed with books, her favorite novels, memoirs, craft books, cookbooks, and books about faith. But, her favorite book is the one she wrote, Dinah’s Story. Mom’s book about Dinah and my parent’s self-sacrificing life, gives testimony and witness to her strength, which comes from God, and who never abandoned her.

In the final words of mom’s book she wrote, “Our journey with Dinah has been long and difficult, but it has brought our family to a good place – a place of contentment and fulfillment…My goals have been reached. Out of difficulty, confusion, and heartache comes peace, acceptance and love. Dinah is our Dinah, and God shines out of those blue eyes.”

Mom was the consummate teacher. She spent twenty-nine years teaching second graders how to read and write. She said she could eye-ball the kids when they walked into the room the very first day of school. What she was she could tell by just looking at the children whether they could read or not.

Many of us remember the Challenger Shuttle tragic accident, carrying teacher Christa McAuliffe. The night of that tragedy, one of mom’s former second grade students gave her a call. At the time, he was in his final year of med-school. On the night, when the first woman schoolteacher who was going to explore space lost her life – he wanted to call the teacher who most influenced his life.

I asked mom if she remembered doing anything special for that young man. She said she remembered him quite well, and he was a good boy, he read really well. But, she didn’t remember doing anything extraordinary. Then after a bit, she said. Well, that year his parents were going through a rough divorce. So maybe she did give him a bit of extra love and attention.

There has always been a special place in mom’s heart for those who teach, especially women, and especially the women of this family. She was the first woman in her family to get a college education, a master’s degree, and to be an educator. At least six women in our family followed in Loretta’s footsteps. One became a superintendent, Cathy, my wife, of whom mom was most extremely proud.

I spent a lot of time this week looking at the shelves in mom’s room. At the top of one of the shelves I found a copy of Dr. Zhivago, one of mom’s favorite books. “Somewhere My Love, Lara’s Theme,” according to my dad, was her favorite tune. When I was fourteen, our family was on the way home from a family summer vacation in Oklahoma. We stopped in Albuquerque for the evening. We went swimming, had dinner and then we went to see the movie Dr. Zhivago. Imagine being a fourteen-year-old boy watching this powerfully romantic story, including a few hot love scenes, with your parents.

I think my mom loved Dr. Zhivago so much because it was a story of the powerful strength and indomitable endurance of the love a women can give to a man in the face of struggle, suffering, and hardship. Mom poured out all her love into my dad. And my dad has given all of his love to my mother. Their love for each other has been honest, transparent, and visible. The divorce rate of parents of special needs children has been quoted as high as 85-90 percent. What has made their relationship so enduring? I am tempted to sum it up in a nice neat package and offer a simply answer. But, that would trivialize my parent’s unique love for one another. What I have witnessed is this – they listened to each other, they forgive each other, they loved each other with their entire souls, they relied upon God, and they shared their love openly with others. Try that formula and maybe your last will last 63 years and beyond.

Those who knew my mom would describe her as strong, brave, courageous, independent and if necessary, defiant. Many folks equate these words with mom’s life long health battles. She was born with one kidney and one ovary. She lost one child in miscarriage. She nearly died giving birth to her son. Dinah was born breach, without C-section. She suffered seven abdominal surgeries. She faced death at least twice as a result of these surgeries. During one of the several blood transfusions she needed, she contracted hepatitis C. At forty-one she defied death by enduring an aorta by-pass. She was a breast cancer survivor. She had knee replacement surgery. And finally, in the end, she braved the most aggressive form of leukemia. She faced these challenges because they were thrust upon her. And she faced them bravely, without complaint.

But more powerful than the will to live, my mom had the inherent will to fight for those who suffered injustice. When it came time to stand up for the weak, she took a strong stand against those injustices done to the marginalized, including children and adults with special needs, the poor, and the gay community. And when it came time to defend women and stand strong for women’s rights, well, then it would be best if you just got out of her way. She believed woman should receive equal pay for equal work - maybe even better pay than men. She insisted that women had equal opportunity in every situation, including women being pastors in churches. These were issues she chose to face, head on, accepting the risks and costs of servanthood. For my mother modeled her life after God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

The last conversation I had with mom was a theological one – we discussed the power of the action of the Holy Spirit in our lives, transforming us to become the agents of God in the world.

Loretta Young Stafford lived her life with a strength, which embodies the life of Esther, an agent of God in the world. Esther was born a poor girl, who grew to be a brave woman. She stood her ground for her family and her people in the face of death. She took the risks and achieved her goal.


Loretta was born a financially poor girl, with a family of rich love, who grew to be a brave woman sharing her love with her family, the children she taught, and those in need of someone to be their defender. She stood her ground for her family. And in the face of death, she was willing to take bold risks – and in her own words, she achieved her goals.

No better thing can be said about us at the end of our life on this earth as we walk across the thin space into God’s world of the communion of saints. Loretta, you were a saint in this world, and you are now a saint in God’s world of the unseen. I will miss seeing you with my eyes, but I still see you with my soul. Amen.

Feast Day of Saint Brigid

Today is the feast day of Saint Brigid. She along with her contemporary Saint Patrick, are the patron saints of Ireland. Brigid is also the patron saint of our young adult community in Tempe, Arizona. She was selected as our patron saint for three reasons. First, her sacrificial care of the poor and sick. Second, in the fifth century she established and led the first monastery for women and men. Third, her tending of the fire of the pre-Christian goddess, Brighid, was an act teaching us today to remain open to the full and mysterious story of God’s work through incarnation and imagination.

I made a five-day walking pilgrimage from Dublin to Kildare, the home of Saint Brigid. The path journeyed down the Wicklow Way to Glendalough. From there we turned west, walking along Saint Kevin’s Way to Kildare. This blog gets its name from the practice of ancient Celts going on pilgrimage, peregrini.

Once in Kildare we visited the Church of Ireland (Anglican) Cathedral of Saint Brigid, where the supposed sight of the tended fire is still revered. Leaving the Cathedral it was a blessed experience to walk to her well, past the historic oaks for which Kildare is named.

The best part of our time in Kildare was having the privilege of meeting the nuns of Saint Brigid’s Community. The three women were extremely hospitable, ecumenically minded, gracious with stories and strongly encouraging of us naming our campus community after their patron. The work of these three elderly women, saints in their own right, has maintained the spirit of Brigid, working to benefit the poor and sick while fostering the opportunities for women in the Roman Catholic Church. I was moved and inspired by their quiet contemplative strength. I continue to drink from the well of those few hours.

I am returning to Ireland this summer for another pilgrimage, 350 miles along the Wicklow Way and then west to the coast of Kerry. Today I am praying for Saint Brigid’s presence on the journey. Blessed be you Saint Brigid.

St. Brigid, woman of prayer, pray for us.
St. Brigid, generous and kind, pray for us.
St. Brigid, who fed the hungry, pray for us.
St. Brigid, who welcomed everyone, pray for us.
St. Brigid, who spoke about Jesus, pray for us.
St. Brigid, who lived like Jesus, pray for us.
St. Brigid, you still care for everyone, pray for us.
St. Brigid, protect us all, pray for us.
St. Brigid, raised up to heaven, pray for us.
St. Brigid, patron saint of Ireland and our community, pray for us.

The Name

The Name

When the perilous frigid northern wind blew across the desert floor of the Arizona border town of Naco on that midnight of All Hallows Eve, Mary died giving birth to her son. In despair, the newborn’s father hung himself on a lonely oak tree, outside of town.

Dr. Jacob Abrahamson wrote his own father’s name for the child on that bitter night without mercy. Before the dawn of All Saint’s morning, Daniel Abrahamson trudged through the blistering blue wind to his son’s home to witness his namesake nestled against his daughter-in-law’s breast.

“Would not this child’s name be his own father’s?” the older Abrahamson said.

“Father Abrahamson, is not the child so beautiful?” asked Ruth.

“Not so handsome as our little Joseph,” he said.

Jagged tears of broken ache traveled the grief worn lines etched in Ruth’s face from the fresh death of her month old Joseph. The baby at her neck could not replace her own flesh, but he was motherless. Ruth’s grace abounded.

“Father Abrahamson, the child bears his grief alone. Do we not weep the tears he does not know?”

The old man’s beard hid his quivering lip. His only son was without child. It had been the solitary trial he could not endure. Ruth’s barren soul screamed in silence. Jacob’s bitter tears were hidden from the world.

“Where is the child’s father?” he asked.

“He suffered the death of a broken heart,” she said.

“And must we bear his blackened dread?” he asked.

“Jacob is preparing the burial of the child’s father. As the baby becomes a man he must know that compassion was given to his parents as they left this earth. Who better to extend that love than the one who holds him now,” she said.

Father Abrahamson pulled back the swaddling to get a look at the child’s countenance. Raven hair shocked in swirls about his honey face. Cinnamon rich eyes glistened, searching for nourishment; his nursemaid mother relieved his pink puckered lips.

“Of what Book was his father?” the bent man asked.

“He was a stranger in a foreign land, of Mexican descent,” she answered.

“And his name?”

“David.”

“It is not natural for you to take this child. He is of another world. It would not be well of the child to suffer confusion of mind to soul,” he whispered.

“Would the child suffer less without two spirits who love his presence?”

“Give him to those of his own tribe,” the elder bristled.

“Should I agonize the emptiness of womb’s heart when the milk of life flows to no mouth of need?”

Her shadow bit into the soul of the God who heard them. The crippled man bowed his wispy grey head in the shame of sadness that had not experienced warmth’s embrace in the season long forgotten.

“Would my son be near soon? To make a final decision?” he staked the words as if permanence were the assurance of a future sealed in banishment.

“The tomorrows of this newborn is held in the hand of your doing,” her eyes said without utterance.

The rabbi struggled to rise to the window of the dripping light trickling across the sky of dilemma. His yellow fingers tapped at the crimson drape to see if his Lord had left hieroglyphics in the purpled clouds.

“His name must be his father’s,” he dared.

“But only with your blessing.” Mother Ruth lifted the child into Rabbi Abrahamson’s ancient hands where the tiny bundle of hope was to rest; right hand under the hip and the left hand of blessing would hold the head of resurrection.

Angelus bells are ringing

The angelus bells are ringing - afar, so near, faint, yet distinct - have they rung here before? I think not. Calling, calling to prayer - to listen is the call, silence.

What is it that is sensed in the soul clearing? The bells have ceased, the ringing hangs in the air. Soul hearing, as like seeing with the third. The hearing of safety - what is that stirring so near, gently moving towards my being - is it presence? So comforting, settling, bringing relief from anxiety of the unknown, being the unknown; it is the Self. That which is most present and yet so unrecognizable, hovers so as to brood and bring integration of that which could be created to become.

Ringing, ringing I hear you still lingering - the call to Presence.

My dream soul is on fire.

My dream soul is on fire. An opening in my subconscious is flooding my conscious, liminal and present to hear and see in this connected space. Processing in journal, reflection, study and spiritual direction. Can be muddled, murky, uncertain, and it can be frightening that the reality is not so subtle of expectations to manifest in the obvious. To see with the eyes is in the mind, to see with the third is to feel in the spirit, stirred soul to knowing becomes heard in the ears of the tender heart skin. It makes known - it moves - it has its being in the air between breathing and silent stillness. Drawing in the experience, release the pain. Soul yoga - stretch, stretch, stretch further - ah, it feels, I feel. Hear the barking of spirit muscles? Premonition? Too ugly to consider, yet, why, could, no, yes, maybe. Now you see what you never wanted to understand in the hearing of the zone between, the space of thinness, no, yes? The Raven in flying with the dragon.

Once again baseball has tortured my soul

I am very weary of professional baseball and actually baseball in general. My minor league roommate, John McLaren, an extremely class gentleman, was named interim manager of the Nationals after manager Jim Riggleman resigned due to mistreatment by the Nationals management. John had managed the Mariners briefly and that ended without him having much a chance when the players preformed poorly. It appears now that John is going to resign from the Mariners (two days later) - hard to know whether that was forced or not. The Nationals have named Davey Johnson manager who last managed a game in 2000. (I guess he learned something in his eleven year absence?) Baseball is a business, no one understands that more than I do - however, it is a business that functions as if slavery were still an accepted form of business. What makes me so weary is that it is so obvious to me the insidious behavior of baseball owners, and television (cable) that manipulates the game has filtered into college baseball (ASU being cheated out of a regional, maybe because the NCAA didn't want ASU at the World Series because of their violations or because ESPN didn't want them their because of the marketing of the new Longhorn network - and the firing of friend Dave Stapleton from Grand Canyon University). Even at the high school and grade school level where club baseball rules and the poor are pushed aside. This started years past with my own treatment in professional baseball and the horrific treatment of Kevin Wickander and Dave Stapleton (at the professional and college level). I am weary, this punishes my soul. I must find some rest.

The Mystic Way

The Mystic Way opens our soul to “abide” in God. To abide in God is for the Spirit of God to be in our spirit and our spirit in the Spirit of God.

It’s like this. Two lovers gazing eye to eye in the intimate stare, hands locked, fingers interlaced, palm to palm – as if nothing in the world can come between the two lovers. Time stands still. God and I, face to face, my consciousness connected at the unconscious level to the very consciousness of God – deep intimacy – pure contemplation. Nothing can come between us.

But, alas, it seems that something is trying to pry our hands apart. Is it evil? No. Worse, it’s something that is insidious – it the well-meaning, the good, that which is most seductive, something that convinces us that the sacrifice of our soul’s energy is worth the cost – it could be the “anything” of doing good deeds. And this well-meaning function will break our contemplation of the true calling of God to our specific “work” and purpose in life, and that, indeed is worth the “cost of discipleship.”

The Mystic Way teaches us to be in the intimate state of contemplation, which is fed by the Eucharist, the Communion of and with the Holy and with the community. We are nourished by the Sacrament, which we must faithfully attend to in order to be sustained through the frenetic onslaught of the “good demands of the functions of life.”

The Mystic Way teaches us that in our contemplation, nourished by the Eucharist in community, we will hear the fetching of the Holy to our true “work,” our real “purpose,” into the action of our life.

The Mystic Way is a difficult journey - walk slowly, allow the integration of being to be with the Being, it is a Holy pilgrimage, hold it lightly and be held.

Awe

We are a Resurrection Community. Our vision is one of prayer, discernment and hospitality. Evidence of being a Resurrection Community and living out our vision surround us.

At Lent One we began three Sunday morning services. In 2010 our average Sunday morning attendance was 120 and before Lent One we were running slightly ahead of that number. Not counting Easter Sunday, which by the way this year we had 50 more than in 2010 – we have averaged 140 – now that’s pretty amazing. Over the last five years our attendance has increased ten percent each year – and this year we are on pace to exceed that rate of growth.

While numbers aren’t everything - they are the measuring stick often used to determine how we are doing. For a frame of reference the average Sunday attendance for an Episcopal Church is 66. And the average age is 62. While I haven’t done an exact calculation, my guess is our average age is in the mid-thirties.

That leads me ask two questions, 1) what good things have we done to create this growing environment and, 2) what’s next?

This morning’s readings from the Acts of the Apostles contain the answer to both of those questions.

The early days of the Church were held together by a tiny band of women and men, including the Apostles, Mary and Mary Magdalene. These people were a radical Jewish sect, a new spiritual movement that lived a subversive life.

In one sentence (Acts 2:42) their strategic plan and vision statement is outlined for us. “They devoted themselves to the apostles teaching and fellowship, the breaking of bread and the prayers.

First, they devoted themselves – this kind of devotion to the apostle’s teachings created an inner transformation in the lives of those who devoted themselves to the practice of studying the scriptures. Their devotion to the scripture transformed their souls and changed their actions. These people were so devoted to the apostle’s teachings that before they were called Christians they were known as “The people of the Way.”

Second, they devoted themselves to hospitality. In verses 43-47 it tells that these people shared all that they had with each other. They gave what they had for the benefit of others. They were good stewards of their resources.

Third, they devoted themselves to a Eucharistic life. The Eucharist was the center of their worship life, which was the model for living their life out in the world. They followed Jesus Christ who emptied himself for the sake of others and they worshipped Jesus by breaking the bread and they worshipped Jesus by modeling his life.

Fourth, they devoted themselves to the prayers. There is strong evidence that these followers of the Way memorized the Lord’s Prayer, the psalms and other pieces of scripture they used in a very liturgical style of worship. These people prayed together as a spiritual practice of life.

And when they devoted themselves to these four spiritual practices, scripture, hospitality, Eucharist and prayer – God added to their number.

From the birth of the Church, devotion to these four spiritual practices have been the marks of every successful Christian community.

1. The community studies the scripture.
2. The community is hospitable.
3. The community life is Eucharistic.
4. The community prays together.


I think our growth can be attributed to our “commitment” to these four spiritual practices.

But, now the question is, “What’s next for us?” Do we go around congratulating ourselves about how successful we are? Hardly. While we can be proud of our commitment – I have a hard time thinking we stand up to the measure of the early church being filled with awe because “many signs and wonders were being done by the apostles.”

I think what’s next for us is to move from being committed to being devoted.

Committed means, we do what we do because we think that whatever we are doing is good for us, or that it’s the right thing to do.

Devoted, however, means, we do what we do because, despite the cost and the sacrifice, we know it will transform our soul and the soul of our community.

We are on the cusp of being awed by the wonders and signs of what God is going to do in our midst. But, to go from the cusp of the experience to being in the center of an actualized experience, I believe we have to move from commitment to devotion.

Together, we must discern and hear where God is calling us into the spiritual practices. Trust God’s calling – we will know it is God’s calling when it has the feeling of being fetched into something that is awe inspiring, filled with the wonders and signs of God’s Presence in our midst.

What’s next? What’s next is something that is awe-inspiring. I can feel it. I can hear it coming.

I found something

My first trip to the Clergy Leadership Project held in West Cornwall, Connecticut was October 2009. I came on the recommendation of a colleague that I trust and knew that if he thought it was good for me to be here – then it must be so. However, I wasn’t sure why else I was here. The people I have met are wonderful and the facilitators and mentors are superior to any other program. But, still, I was unsure that first week why I was here. You see, this group of 25 priests is the future bishops, deans, movers and shakers of the Episcopal Church. I am the oldest person here by ten years and one of the priests here is the same age as our children. I am not called to be bishop (thank God), dean of a cathedral, not a mover, and probably not a shaker, though, at the moment I will hold out on that one.

Painfully, though, the first week I lost something dear to me. While on a stroll through the woods I lost a ring that Cathy bought for me in Ireland – my anam cara ring. More importantly than the monetary value of the ring, the sentimental value – well, is indescribable. I was heartbroken. Cathy reminded me that it was just a “thing,” but still, my heart aches.

By the time I got home, I understood the loss of the ring to be a sign – but, I was torn as to a sign for what – did it mean I was not to return to Connecticut for another CLP class because if I came back I might lose something worse, or did it mean I needed to return to look for the ring? I took a risk, because I enjoyed the program, and came back.

I did look for the ring – obviously, to no avail. It was worse than searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack – good grief, it was six months later following the New England winter.

Honestly, I knew it wasn’t the ring I was supposed to look for – but I wasn’t sure what it was I needed to find – so I trusted that if I kept my soul’s eyes open it would find me.

Two years and four classes later, I found it Monday. I found a part of my voice yet undiscovered. For the first time in my life, I was able to speak out in a large group of peers, and to a celebrated Harvard economist (the founder of Mother Jones Magazine and architect of Greenpeace for the love of God) without halting, with passion (that didn’t come across too harsh) and without the needed crutch of swearing. (Yes, I have also discovered that cursing has always been my thinking and space defense.) I spoke out in critique, with compassion, yet in control, calling for the powerful voice of the Church to be the powerless voice of God in the margins. That was met with an expectation of explanation and then a challenge – and shocking myself, I could do so – without being self-defensive and in a persuasive way. More importantly, I didn’t recognize this myself until a colleague pointed it out to me later that evening.

How did that happen? I don’t want to analyze it – I just want to live into it. My soul has found another layer of its voice. My soul and my voice have become one and I am along for the joyous evolutionary ride. It is frightening and something I must be aware of and use with intention and caution – but I have found the potential of my holistic voice.

What does this now mean? Well, I just found it – and I’m not sure yet – I think it’s a maturation, discovery, evolutionary thing, most likely. And I intend to lean into that with full harmony. Maybe, now, I’ll stumble across my ring in the space between.