I love to tell the story, 'twill be my theme in glory; to tell the old, old story, of Jesus and his love.
Katherine Hankey, 1834-1911
Those are the words from a poem which were eventually set to music and is a popular hymn in many churches and “Old Time Religion” shows. At some point, I'm sure that most everybody has heard at least a part of this hymn about loving to tell the story.
In his book, A Table in the Desert, Fr. Jones taps into this telling of the story by relaying an old Jewish parable:
During a crisis, an old rabbi went to a sacred place in the forest, lit a sacred fire, said
sacred words, and the Jews were saved. When another crisis developed, another rabbi
went to the place and lit a fire, but didn't know the words, and the Jews were saved.
Another crisis came, and another rabbi knew the place, but didn't know about the fire
or the words, and the Jews were saved. At the next crisis, the rabbi knew neither place,
fire, or words, but he knew the story. And it was enough, the Jews were saved.
If you think about it, we are in a similar place – we are so far removed from the actual event that all we have is the story. We have the old stories of the bible. We have the old stories of the resurrection. We have old stories of what God has done in ages past and what God has done for us in our current age. It is this story that Katherine Hankey wrote about when she put pen to paper, and it is this story that many Christians sing about and still tell.
But there's more to it than that. As Fr. Jones points out, and I agree, we need to do more than tell the story. We need to participate in the story, for it is through our participation that the story becomes part of us. We can read and tell many stories, but those stories do not become a part of us until we become active participants. I don't necessarily remember the bedtime stories I read to my daughter, but I remember participating in the ritual of bedtime stories.
Telling the story isn't enough. We need to participate in the story. We need to participate in the ritual until it sinks into our bones and becomes a part of our spiritual DNA. It is through our participation, through our reading and hearing, through our singing and praying, through our taking, blessing, breaking, and receiving of gifts that the story becomes holy. It is through these actions that these normal, everyday things of a story and of bread and of wine become holy.
It is not only those normal, everyday things that become holy through our participation, but it is us who become holy as well. As I said, it is our participation in the story that the story becomes part of our spiritual DNA. We knowingly laugh at the automatic response generated to, “The Lord be with you.” But our spiritual muscles also respond in kind to, “Glory to God in the highest, and peace . . .”, and “The Holy Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ according to Matthew,” and “We believe in one God . . .”, and “Christ has died . . .”, and “Eternal God, heavenly Father . . .”, and so much more.
Yes, we need to tell the story. But we also need to participate in the story. When we participate wholly, the place of our participation becomes holy. When we participate wholly, the gifts become holy. When we participate wholly, we become holy. And it is when we participate wholly that we can truly say, “Holy things for holy people.”
Amen.
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
November 18, 2015
If everything is declared to be sacred . . . the distinction between sacred and secular becomes increasingly faint . . . if it is true of all, the temptation is that there is nothing special about anything.
A Table in the Desert: Making Space Holy, p. 25, W. Paul Jones
What makes something sacred or holy? What makes something special?
On the one hand, we can say that everything is sacred, holy, and special because God created everything. God created the earth, sky, and sea, and called it good. God created the plants, the animals, and humanity, and called it good. God saw everything that he had made, and it was very good. That fact, that everything was created by God and that we were created in the image of God, gives credence to the understanding that everything is sacred, holy, and special.
On the other hand, we can also look around and perceive that not everything is sacred, holy, and special. We can look at one thing and declare it beautiful, while we can look at something else and declare it ordinary. Some things we declare beautiful and valuable because of their scarcity (gold and diamonds, for instance), while other things we declare ordinary and cheap because of their abundance (tree leaves and gravel come to mind).
It would seem, then, that what makes something sacred, holy, and special is us. We determine what is beautiful and valuable. We determine what is ordinary and cheap. We determine what is sacred and holy. For some people, when you combine bread and wine you have the beginnings of a good Italian meal. For others, bread and wine taken together signify something else entirely and reflect the very real presence of Christ.
As an experiment, here are two musical links for you to click on (or to copy and paste into your browser, depending on how technology works):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=80Ue0w45oGs
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xmkhk9Z8Lu4
They are both classified as Christian music. They are both loved by many people. They both attempt to exhibit God's love and presence. Which one do you find sacred, holy, and special?
We have a part in creating and determining what is sacred, holy, and special. But we need to actively participate in that creation and determination. If we decide that Riverside Park, Eight Dollar Mountain, or Cathedral Hills are as equally sacred, holy, and special as Holy Eucharist, what does that do to our view of Holy Eucharist? Does it diminish it's importance in our lives? Does it make it less sacred and holy than those other places?
I agree with Fr. Jones when he says that if everything is declared sacred and holy, then nothing is special. Things won't lose their sacredness or holiness, but they will lose their specialness. If we were to allow Holy Eucharist to become as ordinary as everything around us, then the bread and wine that is the real presence of Christ will then become so much sand and gravel. And that would be a shame.
Amen.
A Table in the Desert: Making Space Holy, p. 25, W. Paul Jones
What makes something sacred or holy? What makes something special?
On the one hand, we can say that everything is sacred, holy, and special because God created everything. God created the earth, sky, and sea, and called it good. God created the plants, the animals, and humanity, and called it good. God saw everything that he had made, and it was very good. That fact, that everything was created by God and that we were created in the image of God, gives credence to the understanding that everything is sacred, holy, and special.
On the other hand, we can also look around and perceive that not everything is sacred, holy, and special. We can look at one thing and declare it beautiful, while we can look at something else and declare it ordinary. Some things we declare beautiful and valuable because of their scarcity (gold and diamonds, for instance), while other things we declare ordinary and cheap because of their abundance (tree leaves and gravel come to mind).
It would seem, then, that what makes something sacred, holy, and special is us. We determine what is beautiful and valuable. We determine what is ordinary and cheap. We determine what is sacred and holy. For some people, when you combine bread and wine you have the beginnings of a good Italian meal. For others, bread and wine taken together signify something else entirely and reflect the very real presence of Christ.
As an experiment, here are two musical links for you to click on (or to copy and paste into your browser, depending on how technology works):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=80Ue0w45oGs
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xmkhk9Z8Lu4
They are both classified as Christian music. They are both loved by many people. They both attempt to exhibit God's love and presence. Which one do you find sacred, holy, and special?
We have a part in creating and determining what is sacred, holy, and special. But we need to actively participate in that creation and determination. If we decide that Riverside Park, Eight Dollar Mountain, or Cathedral Hills are as equally sacred, holy, and special as Holy Eucharist, what does that do to our view of Holy Eucharist? Does it diminish it's importance in our lives? Does it make it less sacred and holy than those other places?
I agree with Fr. Jones when he says that if everything is declared sacred and holy, then nothing is special. Things won't lose their sacredness or holiness, but they will lose their specialness. If we were to allow Holy Eucharist to become as ordinary as everything around us, then the bread and wine that is the real presence of Christ will then become so much sand and gravel. And that would be a shame.
Amen.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
November 11, 2015
Clock-time is not space-time.
So I'm reading this book, A Table in the Desert: Making Space Holy, and the author, W. Paul Jones, is discussing the difference between clock-time and space-time. Clock-time, he says, is artificial and finite, created by man to be “efficient.” Space-time, however, is natural and eternal, created by God as a way to be.
In clock-time, we always have to be somewhere, doing something. We need to be up. We need to be at work. We need to be at a meeting. We need to cook dinner. We need to go to bed. The clock tells us when and where we begin, and when and where we end.
In space-time, however, we just are. Time spent with good friends melts away into a shared experience. Days not ruled by clock-time are those summer days we used to experience as children, living our life from sunrise to sunset. If we are lucky, some vacations run on space-time in which we rise, eat, play and sleep when our bodies think it's time, fully experiencing the space around us.
When we gather for worship, which time do we use? It's fairly obvious that we begin with clock-time; after all, I made sure everyone set their clocks back last week to ensure everyone was present at the appointed hour.
But what happens when our worship of God begins? Do we think the readings are too long? Are we unable to sit quietly during our times of silence reflecting on what God might be saying to us? Did the sermon go too long? Will we be trapped at coffee hour, unable to extract ourselves from a conversation, making us late for or absent from another appointment?
Or, are we able to listen, pray and praise in the midst of space-time, without worrying about what comes next, where we need to be after this, or how long it's all taking?
When Moses asked who was sending him (basically asking what God's name was), the response was, “I am.” There is no clock-time involved with God, only space-time. No beginning. No ending. But also the alpha and omega, the beginning and the end. God is in all and all in all.
Our society constrains us to clock-time, but that doesn't mean we can't experience places of space-time where we just are; places where we can simply be. Worship can be one of those places if you let it.
Here are some ideas on how you can help make that happen: give yourself plenty of clock-time to arrive at church so you aren't rushed; enter the nave in silence and sit in the beauty of holiness, allowing yourself to be immersed with God's presence; participate fully, offering your responses intentionally and deliberately; enjoy the silence; be present to the mystery.
And remember . . . God has all the time in the world, even though we may not think so.
Amen.
So I'm reading this book, A Table in the Desert: Making Space Holy, and the author, W. Paul Jones, is discussing the difference between clock-time and space-time. Clock-time, he says, is artificial and finite, created by man to be “efficient.” Space-time, however, is natural and eternal, created by God as a way to be.
In clock-time, we always have to be somewhere, doing something. We need to be up. We need to be at work. We need to be at a meeting. We need to cook dinner. We need to go to bed. The clock tells us when and where we begin, and when and where we end.
In space-time, however, we just are. Time spent with good friends melts away into a shared experience. Days not ruled by clock-time are those summer days we used to experience as children, living our life from sunrise to sunset. If we are lucky, some vacations run on space-time in which we rise, eat, play and sleep when our bodies think it's time, fully experiencing the space around us.
When we gather for worship, which time do we use? It's fairly obvious that we begin with clock-time; after all, I made sure everyone set their clocks back last week to ensure everyone was present at the appointed hour.
But what happens when our worship of God begins? Do we think the readings are too long? Are we unable to sit quietly during our times of silence reflecting on what God might be saying to us? Did the sermon go too long? Will we be trapped at coffee hour, unable to extract ourselves from a conversation, making us late for or absent from another appointment?
Or, are we able to listen, pray and praise in the midst of space-time, without worrying about what comes next, where we need to be after this, or how long it's all taking?
When Moses asked who was sending him (basically asking what God's name was), the response was, “I am.” There is no clock-time involved with God, only space-time. No beginning. No ending. But also the alpha and omega, the beginning and the end. God is in all and all in all.
Our society constrains us to clock-time, but that doesn't mean we can't experience places of space-time where we just are; places where we can simply be. Worship can be one of those places if you let it.
Here are some ideas on how you can help make that happen: give yourself plenty of clock-time to arrive at church so you aren't rushed; enter the nave in silence and sit in the beauty of holiness, allowing yourself to be immersed with God's presence; participate fully, offering your responses intentionally and deliberately; enjoy the silence; be present to the mystery.
And remember . . . God has all the time in the world, even though we may not think so.
Amen.
Wednesday, November 4, 2015
November 4, 2015
Home has to do with sacred space, yet to be created.
W. Paul Jones, A Table in the Desert: Making Space Holy, p. 4
This book showed up on my desk not too long ago, and I finally got around to picking it up. In this book, Jones works to find the holy in places and spaces as diverse as Appalachian coal mines, the Grand Canyon, the Vietnam Memorial, the Incarnation and the Sacraments of Holy Communion.
I’ve spoken before about finding God in the mundane, or, as Katharine Jefferts Schori titled her most recent book, finding God in the middle of everything. And while that is a good thing to do, what Jones is doing here is just a little different. Instead of looking for God in the everyday, or in the mundane, or in the middle of everything, he is asking us to intentionally work to create holy spaces. He is asking us to participate with God as co-creators. Rather than looking for the holy after the fact, he is suggesting that what we create has holiness and sacredness as its foundation.
When we move into a new house, apartment, or office, one of the first things we do is to decorate and organize things how we want them. We want to make the place feel homey.
But what if, instead of wanting to make our space feel homey, we worked to make it feel holy? Is it possible to plan for holiness from the beginning? This could be good practice on a small scale for a large scale redecoration. After all, we do better when we start small and work our way up to bigger and more complicated things. Babies don't run marathons at two. Just because you learned to ride a bike at six, doesn't mean you get the keys to the car. Every sports official of every game you watch on TV began his or her career calling games at the lowest level imaginable. We can't make the space of the world holy and sacred without making our own houses holy and sacred first.
We might begin by giving thanks for every new day that we are able to breathe, move, and live in God's creation. We can work to create a holy and sacred space in our homes. We can view our relationships as being connected with sacred cords. We can work to live into the sacred mystery of Holy Eucharist, rather than seeing it as something we do once a week.
Starting small just might lead us to find ways to create larger sacred spaces around us. Which, if you think about it, is our ultimate goal. Every Sunday, and sometimes more often, we recite the Lord's Prayer: Our Father, who art in heaven . . . thy kingdom come . . . on earth as it is in heaven. This heavenly kingdom is, ultimately, our home. But this heavenly kingdom, this sacred space, on earth has yet to be created. And in that we are co-creators with God. We are tasked with helping to make that kingdom come.
The problem is, though, that transforming the world is a really big job. So the solution seems to be for us to start small. We begin at home. We begin with what we know. We begin there and expand out, creating ever larger sacred and holy spaces. We are, in a sense, working to create our home. Instead of looking at this creation as business-as-usual, or waiting for God to magically fix everything, let's revise the blueprint so that we are active co-creators with God and the first part of what we build is sacred.
Amen.
W. Paul Jones, A Table in the Desert: Making Space Holy, p. 4
This book showed up on my desk not too long ago, and I finally got around to picking it up. In this book, Jones works to find the holy in places and spaces as diverse as Appalachian coal mines, the Grand Canyon, the Vietnam Memorial, the Incarnation and the Sacraments of Holy Communion.
I’ve spoken before about finding God in the mundane, or, as Katharine Jefferts Schori titled her most recent book, finding God in the middle of everything. And while that is a good thing to do, what Jones is doing here is just a little different. Instead of looking for God in the everyday, or in the mundane, or in the middle of everything, he is asking us to intentionally work to create holy spaces. He is asking us to participate with God as co-creators. Rather than looking for the holy after the fact, he is suggesting that what we create has holiness and sacredness as its foundation.
When we move into a new house, apartment, or office, one of the first things we do is to decorate and organize things how we want them. We want to make the place feel homey.
But what if, instead of wanting to make our space feel homey, we worked to make it feel holy? Is it possible to plan for holiness from the beginning? This could be good practice on a small scale for a large scale redecoration. After all, we do better when we start small and work our way up to bigger and more complicated things. Babies don't run marathons at two. Just because you learned to ride a bike at six, doesn't mean you get the keys to the car. Every sports official of every game you watch on TV began his or her career calling games at the lowest level imaginable. We can't make the space of the world holy and sacred without making our own houses holy and sacred first.
We might begin by giving thanks for every new day that we are able to breathe, move, and live in God's creation. We can work to create a holy and sacred space in our homes. We can view our relationships as being connected with sacred cords. We can work to live into the sacred mystery of Holy Eucharist, rather than seeing it as something we do once a week.
Starting small just might lead us to find ways to create larger sacred spaces around us. Which, if you think about it, is our ultimate goal. Every Sunday, and sometimes more often, we recite the Lord's Prayer: Our Father, who art in heaven . . . thy kingdom come . . . on earth as it is in heaven. This heavenly kingdom is, ultimately, our home. But this heavenly kingdom, this sacred space, on earth has yet to be created. And in that we are co-creators with God. We are tasked with helping to make that kingdom come.
The problem is, though, that transforming the world is a really big job. So the solution seems to be for us to start small. We begin at home. We begin with what we know. We begin there and expand out, creating ever larger sacred and holy spaces. We are, in a sense, working to create our home. Instead of looking at this creation as business-as-usual, or waiting for God to magically fix everything, let's revise the blueprint so that we are active co-creators with God and the first part of what we build is sacred.
Amen.
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