June 29, 2016

The Wednesday book group is currently reading The Harlot by the Side of the Road: Forbidden Tales of the Bible.  It has been an interesting read of some less-than-savory stories not normally addressed in “good church company.”  The book is divided up into seven stories.  The format is that the author will retell the story he is addressing in a sort of contemporary midrash (we might call it 'historical fiction'), which is then followed by his critique-deconstruction-commentary on the story.

Last week we read and discussed the story of Jephthah's daughter.  If you aren't familiar with that story, it can be found in Judges 11.  But in short, Jephthah is a mercenary who gets hired for a particular battle.  He prays to God, vowing to sacrifice to God the first person to come out of his tent to greet him.  As it turns out, it's his only daughter who becomes the victim.  As you would expect, we had an interesting time discussing this story and one of the questions asked of me was, “Why is this story even in the Bible?  What can we possibly learn from it?”

My answer then was, “Because if anything, it makes the words of Jesus even more important – let your yes be yes and your no be no.  By making over-the-top vows, you'll just get yourself in trouble.”

That answer is still valid; but I later read a blog post that put a new spin on this story and made it relevant for today.

On the blog FreedHearts, the author of this post was discussing the situation of a stereo-typical conservative Christian pastor in dealing with LGBT people.  In this situation the only acceptable answer is, “Because the Bible says so,” and any open questions, or questions that challenge a particular understanding, are not allowed.  The hypothetical question then became, “What if the pastor's child comes out as gay or trans?”

There are two possible answers.  Either the pastor reevaluates his position regarding LGBT people, which will most likely result in his dismissal from the congregation, or the pastor “sacrifices his own child to preserve [his understanding of the Bible and the doctrine of his church].”

This is a modern-day example of the story of Jephthah's daughter.  Jephthah's vow to sacrifice whoever came out of his tent put him in a terrible predicament.  Jephthah's vow put him in a position of either sacrificing his daughter in blind obedience to that vow, or of ignoring that vow and running the risk of being damned for all eternity by a wrathful God.  People in the pastor's position are faced with the same dilemma: they either sacrifice their own children in blind obedience to their vow of biblical inerrancy, or they face eternal damnation by a wrathful God because they ignored the “clear teaching of the Bible.”

What I see in the story of Jephthah's daughter and the story of so many LGBT people at the hands of the church are extremely similar:  in both stories, the children who challenge the vows made to God are sacrificed on the altar of blind obedience; some tragically.

We can do better.  We should do better.

And the only person we should be sacrificing is ourselves when we willingly step up and speak out in the name of love.

Amen.

June 22, 2016

I and my immediate family have always been drawn to water.  From the time before I was married I would take trips to Cannon Beach where I could be close to the ocean.  Before that I would climb up onto my favorite rock at the diocesan summer camp located on Lake Coeur d'Alene and look out over the water.  Mrs. Ref, The Kid, and I made annual pilgrimages back to Cannon Beach to be near the ocean and walk on the beach.  As a priest in Montana, Mrs. Ref and I both looked forward to my annual stint as chaplain to the diocesan family camp located on Flathead Lake.  And whenever we head east, we almost always stop at Multnomah Falls.  We usually walk up to the bridge, sometimes walking up to the top of the 620' waterfall.

Whether it's sitting with my feet dipped in the lake off the dock, walking along the beach with the low rumbling of the ocean, or watching the power of a waterfall, there is something peaceful, frightening, and awe-full in that water.  Peaceful because the noise of the water, whether lapping at your feet or the constant noise of the ocean and waterfall seem to have a way of taking me to a different place, or at least driving out troublesome and irrelevant thoughts.  Frightening because, for as much as I feel drawn to water, I don't like to be in it; and being in a place where the edges are far away, or where there's a possibility of being swept downstream, or where storms can wash you away in an instant can be worrisome.  Awe-full in that the beauty of the place, the sheer expanse of the water, and the immense power generated all remind me that I am but one small part of God's creation.

Peaceful, calming, challenging, frightening, awe-inspiring – these are just a few words to describe my complicated relationship with water.  They also, as it happens, are the same words that describe my relationship with God.  I am drawn to both water and God.  There are times when both water and God are peaceful and calming, such as a lazy day on the beach or at Morning Prayer.  There are times when both water and God are challenging, as when I find myself needing to swim farther than planned or in dealing with a sick, homeless person on the kitchen porch.  There are times when both water and God are frightening, as in a storm or when being felt called into a new ministry.  Both water and God are awe-inspiring, as when entranced by a majestic waterfall or when meditating on the presence of God.

And, coincidentally, when I am fully immersed in either there's a chance I might die.  If I swim too far from shore, if I walk along the beach during a raging storm, if I allow myself to get pulled into the waterfall, there's a possibility I might die.  If I immerse myself in God, if I listen to where God might be calling me, if I allow myself to get pulled completely into the presence of God, myself as I know it might die.  And, quite honestly, I kind of like myself.

But that's where the similarities end.  Death in the water is death, and there's no coming back from it.  Death in God is a death of our old ways wherein we are resurrected, coming to life in new ways we cannot even imagine.  But sometimes I get hung up on that word death, and rather than see it as a part of growth, as an event that leads to new life, I see it as an end of who I am, and that can be scary.

We probably all have something that is keeping us from immersing ourselves totally in the presence of God.  There comes a point, though, when I need to let go of my fears and jump into the peaceful, challenging, frightening, awe-full presence of God with both feet.  After all, the worst that could happen is that I die; and that can't be a bad thing.

Amen.

June 15, 2016

This past weekend several of the D.O.K. women gathered at The Bishop's Close for a quiet day.  The Close was donated to the Diocese of Oregon in 1957 and it includes an old, quirky, beautiful house and the Elk Rock Gardens, 13 acres of wonderfully landscaped paths and plants.  The weather was not “perfect,” but it didn't rain, it wasn't cold, nor was it blistering hot.  Despite overcast skies and a few spittles of raindrops that never lasted, the women spent their time in the garden in silent prayer, meditation, or soaking in the beauty of the place.

The theme of the day was Eden Among Us, and I led them through various phases of contemplation on garden themes in scripture, particularly at creation, resurrection, and at the end of the age.  It was in a garden where God breathed life into humanity, instilling in all of us a piece of God's grace.  It was in a garden where Mary reached out to grasp the new creation found in the risen Christ.  And it will be in a new creation where we are invited to partake of both the Tree of Life and the Water of Life.

At the end of the day I sent them forth with these words:  May you find healing in God's creation, may you see the face of God in others, may others see the face of God in you, and may we help all people answer God's invitation to come and receive the gift of the water of life.

Do we find healing in God's creation?  Can we see the face of God in others?  Can they see the face of God in us?  Where do we draw the water of life?

I didn't know it then, but those questions would have much more meaning for me early this past Sunday morning as I began to hear of yet another massacre of innocent people.  Once again we heard of a man, armed with automatic weapons, who decides it's a good day for killing.  Once again we hear of “thoughts and prayers” for the victims and their families.

This has become the liturgy of the United States:  kill, pray, deflect, double-down.  Rinse and repeat.  Once again we hear hear any number of excuses – from, “This is the price we pay for the freedom to own guns,” to, “This is no time to politicize the issue,” to, “If the victims were armed, fewer would have died.”

“Thoughts and prayers for the victims and their families” has become, in my opinion, a hollow and meaningless statement.  We need less thoughts and prayers and more willingness to put an end to the national tragedy of valuing our weapons fetish over the lives of God's children.

Today I wonder if God's creation has become just another commodity to use.  Today I wonder if people even try to see the face of God in others.  Today I wonder if the face I present to the world is godly in any way.  Today I wonder if the water of life has become so tainted with the blood of innocent victims that we want no part of it.

It is hard to find the beauty of the world around us when the world around us is hell bent on killing us off.  And yet, it's there.  We may need to look a little harder, but beauty is there.  The kingdom is at hand, but it has not yet arrived.  Maybe our job is to be a little more bolder about the kingdom of God and a lot less tolerant of business as usual.

Amen.

June 8, 2016

“Even we ourselves are subtle versions of our refrigerator door.”
A Table in the Desert: Making Space Holy, W. Paul Jones

It's taken me longer to get through this book than I had originally thought it would.  I still have about 40 pages to go.  But I've been interrupted here and there – Holy Week and Easter, and there was the seven-step discipleship series I just finished, to name a few.

This entire book revolves around the topic of holy spaces, where we find them and how we make them.  In this particular section, Fr. Jones discussed sacred spaces of religious buildings and where we find or make sacred spaces in the various spheres of our lives – home, work, school, church, car, and casket.  We have various personalities and traits and attitudes in each of those arenas, and it was in this context that he made the above quoted comment.

It originally struck me as funny as well as accurate; but the more I thought about it, the more I began to think that we are not just subtle versions of our refrigerator door, but versions of our refrigerators themselves.

Our refrigerator doors tend to be a display area for the proud artwork of a child or grandchild.  They hold photos of family and friends, both near and far.  They may display a photo or two of our favorite places.  Our refrigerator doors more often than not display the very best of our lives, images of which we are proud, that we want to show off to others, or that we want to be reminded.

Open those doors up, though, and we might find something else entirely.  Up front there's the usual food stuff we use on a regular basis – milk, juice, eggs, sandwich fixins, and dinner ingredients.  But dig a little deeper, go back a little farther, and you might run into the forgotten container of cottage cheese with a February “sell by” date, dinner leftovers from December that you wanted to eat for lunch, a moldy cucumber that got buried under other things and forgotten, or any number of ingredients that never got used because something came up or you just didn't have the time to prepare.  Take a look at the shelves and drawers and notice how many things have spilled that didn't get properly cleaned up.

We aren't just a version of our refrigerator door, we are a version of our refrigerator.  We put all the best stuff out where people can see it.  We show off all the goodness of our lives.  But if we open up the door, things aren't always as neat and tidy as we make them out to be.  Sure, there are things we get right and do well; but there are also things we intended to do but forgot, leaving it in back, untouched.  Or maybe there's a piece of us that was once wholesome and good, but we neglected it, so it sits deep inside of us, turning moldy or rotting away.

We aren't just a version of our refrigerator door, we are a version of our refrigerator.  What inside needs to be used more often?  What needs to be cleaned up?  What needs to be tossed out?  More importantly, what would it take to have our sometimes messy inside be more in line with the displayed goodness of our outside?

Amen.

June 1, 2016

I am continuing to examine the seven-step discipleship process that was originally published in 1934 by Forward Movement, and today we arrive at Step 7. As a reminder, the first six steps in this process were Turn, Follow, Learn, Pray, Serve, and (corporate) Worship.

The final step in this discipleship process is Share.

To share is, at its most fundamental level, offering what we have to others. In this process of discipleship, the act of sharing has two specific meanings.

The first can be considered as charitable acts – the sharing of our abundance and stuff with those less fortunate than ourselves. The gospels and epistles provide us with numerous examples of and admonitions to share food, clothing, and other resources with people in need. And there is no shortage of people in need and ways to reach them in our own community – from food banks and the people who rely on them to our own association with Ft. Vannoy Elementary School – we who have much have both the opportunity and obligation to share our abundance and stuff.

The second is the act of evangelism. Evangelism, as I've said many times before, is not standing out on the corner of 6^th & G accosting people with your big, floppy Scofield Reference Bible, or with free tickets to hell or heaven that a parishioner recently found in his coat pocket and gave to me this past Sunday (no, I'm not kidding; it's in my office and I'll show it to you if you ask). Going back to the original definition, evangelism is offering to share what we have with others. It's offering to share our faith. It's offering to share our traditions. It's offering to share the meal that is Holy Communion. We have an amazing faith, and we have a particular way of living out that faith, and those are things that need to be shared.

The act of discipleship is a life-long endeavor. As fallible humans, we have many (perhaps too many) opportunities to turn back to Christ. As a disciple, we need to put our trust in Christ and follow where he leads us. As disciples, we need to recognize that we don't know everything and are constantly challenged to learn. As people of faith, we need to deepen our bond with God and practice daily prayer. As disciples, we need to be open to serving, in the sense of answering a call to serve within the church and in our actively reaching out and serving others. As people of faith, we need to participate in corporate worship on a regular basis, because it is through this act that we participate with the whole host of heaven as well as developing relational ties among those who worship with us. And as apostles, we share both of our abundance and of our faith.

These are the seven steps of discipleship. I'm sure there are others, or that other actions can be added or substituted, but this is a good list from which to begin. Seven steps of discipleship. What do you do well? What do you need to work on? What hadn't you considered, but now seem drawn to?

I’ve talked about moving from discipleship to apostleship in recent sermons – may I suggest that that journey begins with seven steps.

Amen.