Sharing the Good News: Wandering Feet and Open Hearts

Acts 16:9-15

The apostle Paul has one thing on his mind. He wants to share the good news of the risen Christ to the whole world. To do so, he travels to major cities in the Greco-Roman world. Paul wants to share with folks how God’s love, through Jesus’ life, death and resurrection, can change their lives, just as it did to his. Of course Paul being Paul, he has his own travel itinerary—one that always involves using well-built Roman roads and other major arteries of commerce. He and Silas travel to Asia Minor, then to Derbe and Lystra—both of which are in modern-day Turkey.

Paul hopes to take the gospel east into Asia, but the Holy Spirit has other ideas. She sends him west, to Greece.

One night, Paul has a dream, or vision, in which a man from Macedonia (modern-day Greece) implores the apostles to come and help them. Paul and his companions follow God’s leading. They board a ship for Troas and end up in Philippi, a major Roman city in Macedonia. Paul has a particular way of entering any city in which he wants to preach and teach. He finds someone who will welcome him into their home to stay. He finds out where the center of town is—where philosophers, business owners and crafts people gather to practice their trades, to do business, to discuss, question and learn from each other. If he intends to stay in a city for any length of time, Paul sets up his own business—probably tent-making—and gets to know other craftsmen. Paul also finds out where the local synagogue is. Not only does he seek Gentile converts in the heart of the city; he wants to share the story of Jesus with his Jewish brothers and sisters. The local synagogue is often called “a place of prayer.”

Paul and his traveling companions stay in Philippi for some days. On the Sabbath, they go outside the city gates beside the river. Likely someone has told them about a place where Jewish believers gather to pray. The fact that this place of prayer is outside the city limits may mean that “the city lacks a quorum of ten Jewish males to congregate. . .for worship.”[1] When they find this place by the river, they find a group of women gathered there.

Now in scripture, whether in Hebrew or Christian scripture, it is significant thing when a person is mentioned by name. Many people in scripture go un-named. However, when people are named, we need to pay attention, to ask why. Paul meets a “certain woman named Lydia, a worshiper of God.” What is significant about Lydia?  First, she is a woman—a woman in a very patriarchal Roman culture. Second, she is named, which indicates that she likely has a high social and economic status. Third, it is clear that Lydia is a successful business woman. She is from Thyatira, a city in Asia Minor well known for its textile industry, yet Paul meets here in Greece; clearly she travels on business. Lydia is a dealer in purple cloth. Purple dye is expensive. “Purple clothing [is] for the rich and royal in the Roman world, where it [symbolizes] power and influence. A merchant in purple cloth, then, is someone who [rubs] shoulders daily with society’s rich and famous.”[2]

Unlike most women of that time, Lydia is not identified with a husband. In fact, her name, which is the same as her district back home, indicates that she is unmarried and independent. The reference in Acts to “her household”  tells us that she is head of her household—no mention of husband or father. Fourth, Lydia is “a worshiper of God.” The writer of Acts does not tell us whether she is a Jewish convert or a Gentile seeker who has aligned herself with a local synagogue. The latter may be the case. Regardless, we know that Lydia worships the living and eternal God rather than pagan idols that dot city landscapes all over the Roman Empire.

In Acts, we learn that this wealthy businesswoman has an open heart. She listens eagerly as the apostles share their stories of God’s love through Jesus Christ. Then she and everyone in her household is baptized—probably there in the river that flows nearby. After becoming a Christian believer, what does Lydia do?  She has already opened her heart. Now she opens her home. She urges the apostles to come and stay at her home. The gospel of Jesus Christ has now expanded radically. In the first instance, the life, death and resurrection of Jesus has been proclaimed to Jewish believers—thus creating a particular sect of Judaism. In the second instance, Gentiles have been brought into the Christian faith. Now, the circle widens.  Gentile women become critical components of the story of Christ’s love. Women are given credence and positions of leadership—yes, thank you, very much, by Paul.

Keep in mind that in the 80’s and 90’s of the first century, Christians do not gather in historic buildings. Instead, they gather in the homes of wealthy patrons where they break bread and drink wine to remember Jesus. They give money for mission—the Church in Jerusalem. They pool money, food, and clothing to take care of those on the edges of local society—in that time, widows and orphans, who have no legal rights and no one to care for them. Lydia’s hospitality tells us that it is likely she begins to host a Christian House Church. She becomes an important witness to the gospel of Jesus. Lydia’s hospitality is deep and radical. It begins with her heart that is open, a heart that welcomes a Truth she has been seeking. Her hospitality continues as she opens her home to welcome people who have begun as complete strangers. Someone shares God’s love with her. She then turns to share God’s love with others.

I believe that Lydia has something to teach us today. As twenty-first century Christians, we must ask ourselves whether we are as eager as Lydia was to hear about God’s love and to share it. We no longer have to meet on a grassy area next to the river to worship. We have, and love, our historic buildings. We love being in a community of faith that is like Cheers—where everybody knows our names. Unlike the first century Church, we have generally lost that edge of challenge and excitement about opening our hearts and our worship spaces to people hungry for spiritual nourishment.

In a time when the world constantly changes politically, socially, economically, we want Church to be dependable, unchangeable, predictable, comfortable. This will never happen. Why? There are at least two reasons. First, because if we are not changing and growing, like any other living organism, we are dying. Second, and more importantly, because the Holy Spirit is dependable, but only because  She is unpredictable. Paul thought he was headed east, to Asia. The Holy Spirit thought otherwise. She sent him west, to Greece, where he met an intelligent businesswoman who would help change the Church and the world for the sake of the Gospel.

If we are to call ourselves followers of Jesus, then we must be willing to move beyond our own comfort zones. In a world full of people who call themselves Spiritual But Not Religious, Jesus challenges us to ask how we, in a community of faith, will share the story of Jesus with them. How do we—at St.Philips—show folks how the love of Christ can make a difference, not just in their Sunday morning lives here, but in their Wednesday morning lives out there—lives full of challenge, demand, stress, frustration?

God loves you. God loves me. God loves us so much that God became human and lived with human beings to show us a new way to live and love. Jesus continues to challenge us to share that love—not just inside the comfortable boundaries of our own churches, but outside the doors of this and every church. People are hungry for spiritual nourishment, for companions on their journeys, for love, for deep, radical hospitality.

How will we tell them that God loves them?  Our doors may be open, but how open are our hearts?

© The Rev. Dr. Sheila N. McJilton

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[1] Robert W.Wall, “The Acts of the Apostles” in The New Interpreter’s Bible, Vol X, (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2002), 231.

[2] Ibid., 232.

Choosing a Shepherd

 

Easter 4C      Readings:  Acts 9:36-43     Psalm 23      Revelation 7:9-17   John 10:22-30

“Even though I walk through the  valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff—they  comfort me.” 

“My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.” 

It has been a week of tragedy and a week of grace. On Monday, two homemade bombs exploded at the Boston Marathon. Three people were killed—one of whom was only seven years old—dozens of people lost at least one leg, and dozens of others were injured in other ways. By Thursday night, a young police officer on the MIT campus was dead. Boston was a city paralyzed by fear as people sheltered in their own homes by order of the authorities. One of the two suspects died in a firefight on Thursday night. By the time it was all over on Friday night, a seriously wounded nineteen year old had surrendered to the police.

This week, we have witnessed images on television and on websites of major newspapers. We have heard endless sound bytes by journalists. We have read stories about people helping each other—offering food, shelter, medical attention to complete strangers. We have listened to reporters’ rapid-fire questions to broken-hearted relatives of the Tsarnaev brothers. On Friday night, we heard applause and cheers of people in gratitude for the police and FBI in Boston.

All the while, the words of the 23^rd Psalm kept running through my head. The image of the Good Shepherd haunted me. Within the space of five days, we all experienced two very different realms: good and evil.  On some level, it was clear how different these realms were. Terrorism is evil. Heroism and generosity, compassion and the honoring of the dead are good.

“The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want.” In the Hebrew scriptures, a king was to be a shepherd—one who cared for and protected his people. But for the psalmist, no human being would ever totally fit the bill for shepherd. Throughout the pages of the Old Testament, prophets criticized kings and religious leaders when they did not take good care of their human sheep. Many were corrupt. Many loved power and privilege, neglecting the poor people around them. Many were cruel, forcing their own people into slave labor—Solomon is one sad example of a king who did that.

By the time Jesus of Nazareth walked this earth, his voice joined those of the Old Testament prophets in calling out religious authorities. The Pharisees pushed Jesus to tell them plainly whether he was the Messiah or not. Jesus refused. Instead, he said that the works he did in his Father’s name should be sufficient proof of who Jesus is. Then he told them “but you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep. My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.”

The Good Shepherd has a flock of sheep. They know his voice. They live close to him, they follow him, they trust him. They seem to know the difference between good and evil. Don’t follow the bad shepherds, they tell each other. Here is the Good Shepherd. Let’s follow him. He will take care of us. He will seek us out when we get lost. At the end of the day, it is he who will find a calm stream so we can have water. He will call each of us by name, check us over carefully, put oil on any wounds we have, feed us, then stand guard over us all night long.

This week, there has been no doubt about the realms in which we human beings live. There is good. There is evil. There are good shepherds. There are some bad ones. Yet on Friday night, I found myself with mixed emotions. I was relieved when someone was taken into custody—someone whose actions this past week resulted in death, dismemberment, grief, fear.  Yet I was sad too. I found myself thinking that this is a nineteen year old boy. Like many teenagers, he is highly impressionable and does not make good decisions. I wondered. Had his older brother manipulated him? Had Tamerlan filled Dzhokar’s head with justification about why it was okay to wreak havoc on Americans who do not practice radical Islamic laws? Did the older brother coerce the younger one into making bombs in an apartment for a twisted cause?

On Friday night, I wondered what Dzhokar was thinking as he lay stretched out in the bottom of that boat in a back yard. He was badly wounded, likely bleeding to death. The night before, he had helped kill a young police officer, his older brother had been shot in a gunfight, then he had accidently run over his brother. Now, his brother was dead. His uncle had accused him publicly of shaming the family and the Chechen people. His parents were thousands of miles away in his native country. I wondered if he was scared. Did he want his mama? Did he realize he had chosen to follow the wrong shepherd?

I have no way of answering those questions. I just know that what we all witnessed this week was pretty extreme. In such a situation, it is easy to condemn what we see as evil and uphold what we call good. Yet at this point, none of us know the whole story. Surely many of us know people—some in our own families—who are able to justify their own actions according to the standards they espouse. Yes, some of those folks have emotional or mental issues. So it is questionable just how realistic their worlds are, how much validity is in the ways in which they justify their behavior. Some even have violent tendencies. I do not know about you, but I have first-hand experience with people I have loved who have turned out not to be the people I thought they were. On Friday night, I thought about some folks I know who could easily say “there but for the grace of God go I.”

The issue of good versus evil and which shepherd we might follow, is the stuff of centuries of thinking, arguing, wondering. We can ask—and often do—the question “If God is so good, how can God allow people to do such evil things to each other?” There is no question that there are good shepherds. There are also shepherds who abandon their flocks or mistreat them or manipulate them or coerce them into thinking that wrong is right. Some of us are quick to blame God. Others blame someone else—and sometimes that someone else is an ethnic group or a religious group.

Yet we must remember that God has created human beings with hearts and minds and the ability to choose. In the Harry Potter series, author J.K. Rowling deals extensively with the issue of good and evil. Through all of the books, war is waged between good and evil. Evil is represented by He Who Must Not Be Named and those who follow him. Good is represented by a number of people—from Harry Potter himself to his friends, his family, Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall and others. Of course the ultimate victor over evil and death is love—sacrificial love. The path to that kind of love, however, is one full of choices.

As a young man, Voldemort—as Tom Riddle—makes poor choices. As Harry Potter grows in his understanding of good and evil, he frets about the evil that he knows lives inside of him. In the book Chamber of Secrets, Professor Dumbledore says this to Harry:

“Listen to me, Harry. You happen to have many qualities Salazar Slytherin prized in his hand-picked students. His own very rare gift, Parseltongue–resourcefulness–determination–a certain disregard for rules,” he added, his mustache quivering again.

“Yet the Sorting Hat placed you in Gryffindor. You know why that was. Think.”

“It only put me in Gryffindor,” said Harry in a defeated voice, “because I asked not to go in Slytherin. . .”

“Exactly,” said Dumbledore, beaming once more. “Which makes you very different from Tom Riddle. It is our choices Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.”  (Chamber of Secrets, page 333.)

You might say that Harry Potter chose the right shepherd. And this past week, you might say that Dzhokar Tsarnaev chose the wrong shepherd. The Good Shepherd does not force us to choose him over another shepherd. Yet if we do, we will know compassion instead of cold hostility. We will know a life of abundance instead of a life of scarcity. We will know a life of light that brightens even the darkest shadows. We will know love instead of fear. Love that goes before us, behind us, around us, over us, under us. Love, goodness and mercy that will follow us all the days of our lives, leading us to live in the house of the Lord forever.

More than one shepherd calls your name today. Which one will you choose to follow? Amen.

© The Rev. Dr. Sheila N. McJilton

Pictures accessed through Google images.

Good Friday

The Passover feast was over. One disciple left it early and vanished into the night. Later, Judas reappeared out of the shadows, no longer alone. He’d brought Temple police with him. Later, he threw the thirty pieces of silver back at the status quo. They laughed, and Judas could take it no longer. The pain was too great. The darkness too dark. How could Jesus ever forgive him?

Another disciple stood, rubbing his hands by a fire in the cold of the night. Three times, he vowed he did not know Jesus. And then in the cold gray dawn, a rooster crowed, and Peter remembered what Jesus had predicted. “Before the cock crows three times, you will betray me.” He wept for the memory of that. How could Jesus ever forgive him?

The other disciples had fled the Garden of Gethsemene and scattered through the dark streets of Jerusalem. Their world had turned upside down. A few hours ago, they had all been laughing, arguing, lifting glasses of wine, eating too much—in fact, by the time they went with Jesus to the Garden to pray, they found they were too sleepy to pray. But the clattering of swords, Judas’ drawn face appearing out of the shadows, that kiss, then the soldiers arresting their master—what had happened to turn this world upside down that quickly?

Jesus had said he would be handed over. And. . .put to death. Do you suppose?. . .No, it cannot be. He could not die. They knew he’d said you had to lose your life to find it. But wasn’t he talking in metaphors? And if. . .if Jesus was executed, what about them? Was it only a matter of time before soldiers showed up at the door and took them away?

Crucifixion was an ugly death. A long slow painful death where you didn’t die from the loss of blood as much as you died from asphyxiation. Your arms could not support the weight of your body without a lot of effort. And that effort shot daggers of pain all over your body.

It was almost over. A man dragged the crossbeam of his own death slowly through the narrow, stone streets of Jerusalem. When he fell for the third time, the soldiers grabbed a stranger, Simon of Cyrene, and made him carry it. They had no time for delays. Too many people to crucify on this day. This one wasn’t fighting them, but he was weak, as if all the life had already left him. As if he carried the weight of the world already on his shoulders, and the crossbeam just was too much.

The noon sun blazed, hot and shadowless, over a group of crosses. The one in the center was the one that mattered most. From the edges of the old rock quarry, his mother and Magdalene and the beloved disciple and then, a few others who appeared, watched. From a distance, they watched, and waited, and wept.

His mother spoke, as if she were in a dream:  “It only seems like yesterday that I was holding him for the first time. . .that night in Bethlehem. . .” She fell silent.

It was over. He was gone.

“A stable lamp is lighted whose glow shall wake the sky;

the stars shall bend their voices, and every stone shall cry.

and every stone shall cry, and straw like gold shall shine;

A barn shall harbor heaven, a stall become a shrine.

 

This child through David’s city shall ride in triumph by;

The palm shall strew its branches and every stone shall cry;

And every stone shall cry, though heavy, dull, and dumb,

And lie within the roadway to pave his Kingdom come.

 

Yet he shall be forsaken, and yielded up to die;

The sky shall grown and darken, and every stone shall cry.

And every stone shall cry, for stony hearts of men:

God’s blood upon the spearhead, God’s love refused again.

 

But now, as at the ending, the low is lifted high;

The stars shall bend their voices, and every stone shall cry.

And every stone shall cry, in praises of the Child

by whose descent among us the worlds are reconciled.”

Hymn #104 in Hymnal 1982

Text by Richard Wilbur, Music Andajar by David Hurd

© The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton

Washing Feet

It takes an act of courage

to take your shoes and socks off

to slip out of sandals

to let another human being

touch a part of you that may not be pretty.

Baby feet are sweet and soft, and

mamas kiss them and count toes and

hold those tiny sweet soft feet

when they are cold and

splash bath water over them and

hear baby laughter.

Big feet are rough and calloused,

some with corns, some misshapen, from

years of being on them.

Waiting tables or farming or

wearing cheap shoes or

pushing feet into fashions that are

unkind to human beings.

So it is hard to bare your rough,

misshapen feet to another’s touch.

 

Jesus washed feet.

One night, he became a slave during dinner.

He picked up a towel.

Took a basin and water pitcher and

began to go slowly around a table

to wash his disciples’ feet.

Feet that were rough.

Misshapen. Dusty from a day’s travel.

Feet that had walked roads with him

for three years.

Feet of people he loved.

Feet of people he needed to touch

one last time.

When Jesus was a baby,

Mary must have kissed his feet

all tiny and sweet and soft and

she counted toes and

heard baby laughter as she

poured water over them.

Tonight, Jesus washes the feet

of people he loves.

One by one. Slowly. Lovingly.

Maybe he washes his own mother’s

feet—I like to think so.

Yet no one washes Jesus’ feet this night.

Soon, those dusty bare feet

will feel the hard dirt of a prison cell.

The cold stone of Pilate’s pavement.

The stones of Jerusalem’s city streets.

Soon, Jesus’ feet will be pushed together.

The last time anyone touches him,

it will be with rough hands.

Rough hands will savagely drive a spike through Jesus’ feet.

No one washes Jesus’ feet this night.

For what his feet will soon endure,

will I let him wash mine?

Will you let me wash yours?

© The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton

Pictures accessed through Google images

Betrayal

“Truly, truly, I say to you, one of you will betray me.” (John 13:21b)

Betrayal by a friend is a bitter pill. You taste it long after you’ve swallowed it and perhaps the memory of that taste never quite leaves you. You meet someone. He becomes your friend, then he decides to make your ministry his ministry. There is collegiality. Strength in sharing things along the journey. You talk about God and God’s work in the world. You help people together. You break bread together, drink wine together, laugh, share stories about your families, talk about your hopes for the future.

Then something happens.

Somewhere along the way, a small, imperceptible crack appears in the friendship. You have talked at times about the similarities in how you do ministry, who should be supported, where you hope to be at journey’s end. Yet suddenly, you know that has changed and you begin to wonder where things went wrong.

It might be in the eyes averted. It might be in the missed appointment. It might have been in the silences that grows longer and longer. It might be something he says to another in your hearing.

All you really know is that things have changed. There is now a yawning chasm between you and someone you love and trusted. Your soul is troubled, your heart heavy.

In John’s account of the Last Supper, Jesus washes the disciples’ feet. Because Jesus of Nazareth is light and life, he knows darkness when he sees it or when he feels it. No doubt when he looks at Judas, he feels darkness. Maybe Judas averts his eyes when Jesus looks at him. Maybe he is just too quiet or he is sharp-tongued with the disciple sitting next to him at dinner. Maybe he pushes his food around the plate, hardly touching dinner that he usually eats with enthusiasm. Whatever it is, Jesus knows. Jesus knows that Judas is about to leave the group, to slip out of the room, to go betray him to the Temple authorities.

Surely Jesus’ heart is heavy. He has shared a journey with Judas for three years, day in and day out. He knows Judas well—perhaps too well. Now, ever the loving host, he hands Judas some food. Then before Judas has swallowed the bread or meat, Jesus says “What you are going to do, do quickly.”

I wonder if Judas ever looks at Jesus again before he kisses him in the Garden of Gethsemene. I doubt it. I suspect that Judas averts his eyes, then gets up from the Passover table, grabs his cloak and quickly leaves the room without speaking to anyone.

Jesus’ next teaching to the disciples left at table is about love. “A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another; even as I have loved you, that you also love one another.”

This is a hard thing to do, is it not? It is easy enough to love your child, your spouse, your best friend. Yet to love some people is very challenging, because they are not all lovable. And what about the friend who has betrayed you? How do you love that one? How do you build a bridge across the yawning chasm that now exists after a bitter betrayal by a friend?

I suspect that you just hold on to the fact that you are not alone in this betrayal business. Others have suffered this kind of pain before and others will suffer after you. You love anyway. You pay attention in case your friend makes a movement back to you. You love God, know he loves God, and you hope that one day, the love you both have for God will build a bridge back to each other.

© The Rev. Dr. Sheila N. McJilton

Pictures accessed through Google images.

Monday of Holy Week

“I bind unto myself today the strong Name of the Trinity, by invocation of the same, the Three in One, and One in Three.”

It is not the Feast of St. Patrick, which occurred an octave ago (March 17.) Instead, it is Monday of Holy Week. On this gray, wet day which began in the Washington, DC area with a wet, heavy snow, many faithful Christians got up, tugged on boots, several layers of clothes and gathered to march in downtown Washington. Some of those faithful had actually boarded buses in Connecticut at midnight last night to travel through the night in order to arrive at Epiphany Episcopal Church downtown for breakfast. Others traveled from New Jersey, Massachusetts, Delaware and many other states to march together. Three people from St. Philip’s in Laurel went to march with me. Three others were planning to go to St. Mark’s on Capitol Hill to help pack bagged lunches for those who would head back to Connecticut after the march.

The Dioceses of Connecticut and Washington have instigated this march. It is to be a show of public support against gun violence in this country and around the world. It is to mourn the loss of innocent victims—in Connecticut, Sudan, Colorado, New York, Baltimore, Chicago, the Middle East—all around the world. A Holy Week Witness to challenge a culture of violence.

At 10:30, people spill out of St. John’s Episcopal Church in Lafayette Square to begin the first Station of the Cross and our walk. Bishop Ian Douglas of Connecticut (I think it was he—I could not see him from where I stood!) welcomes us and thanks us for coming, then Bishop Mariann Budde welcomes folks as well. She leads us as we say “Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy,” the Lord’s Prayer and a Renewal of our Baptismal Vows. Then we are off, walking towards the White House. A man who walks near me, wearing a plastic poncho over his clothing, but no coat, begins to sing “Balm in Gilead.” I cannot join in because he is not singing the hymn to the tune I know, but he is unfazed by the lack of voices joining his. He sings louder, seguing from one hymn to the next.

We cross the street to stand in front of the White House for the Second Station. Ironic. The scripture from John is the one where the chief priests answer Pilate with the words, “We have no king but the emperor.” Jesus is a dead man walking because his own people vow allegiance to the political powers rather than to God’s new way of love in the carpenter from Nazareth, the one who becomes the Christ.

“Christ be with me, Christ within me, Christ behind me, Christ before me.”

Before me, colorful umbrellas bob like bright flowers in the gray morning. A light “mess” is falling—something that seems to be unsure whether it is supposed to be snow or rain. Down Pennsylvania Avenue the crowd moves, slowly but surely. Behind me, one man beats a drum slowly. Others sing as they go. I see friends from other states and hug them. Many clergy have worn black cassocks as part of our public witness. All around me, I see the face of Christ.

“Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ in quiet, Christ in danger. . .”

I had seen my colleague Bishop Mary Glasspool at the beginning of the march. She had flown from California to be here, and it was good to see her again (I had known her when she was rector of St. Margaret’s in Annapolis, MD). Now, in the mess that has pretty much decided it will be light rain instead of snow, she is beside me. During the meditation, the leader asks us to turn to our neighbors, hold a hand or shoulder of that person, and ask for prayer: “Pray for me, a sinner.”  Mary and I do that, grin, then hug.

As we get ready to move again, she says, “Follow the cross. Follow the cross,” and I respond, “Always a good idea, isn’t it?”  We part as the crowd moves, but I have felt the holiness of prayer, of connection in relationship, of collegiality. The cross is lifted above the crowd, bobbing a bit like the umbrellas.

“. . .Christ in hearts of all that love me, Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.”

At the Seventh Station, we stand in front of the John A. Wilson Building (houses the Mayor and Executive Council of DC). A man with a big camera climbs up on the side of the wide steps to get a better view of the crowd. He almost gets arrested, because two security guards begin to tell him that he cannot be up there. He does not seem concerned in the least, and only when their voices rise across that of the leader of this Station does he slowly begin to descend from his perch.

Holy God,

Holy and Mighty,

Holy Immortal One,

Have mercy upon us. 

At the Ninth Station, on the edge of the Mall, we pray by name for the Vice Principal and teachers in Newtown who, in December, offered their lives to protect the children in their care. We pray by name for all the children who died that day by gun violence. We remember all those who are victims of violence. We pray for peace. We ask God to guide us as we nurture and care for the children in this country and in this world. Our children and grandchildren deserve better than a life where they huddle in the corner of classrooms or in lockers, where they remember the popping sounds of gunfire that kill their brothers, sisters, friends, teachers, parents.

“I bind unto myself the Name, the strong Name of the Trinity. . .”

We move along the wide sidewalks, our marshals indicating we can no longer walk in the street. The U.S. Capitol looms as we approach; the last part of our march is across a soggy lawn to stand and pray. Way up on one of the balconies, I see four people looking down at us. Do the staffers or congress members know why we are here? Do they care? I wonder what difference our walk in the messy weather has made. By the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Station of the Cross, the purple cassocks of three bishops ahead of me were obviously wet at the bottom. Now, at the end, I wonder if my black cassock is in the same shape. (Later answer: yes.) The backs of some folks’ coats are drenched. People share umbrellas with someone else. We pray together for peace: “Lord, make us instruments of your peace. Where there is hatred, let us sow love. . .”

At the end, the crowd begins to break up. Some go to meet with their congressional representatives. Some go to other meetings. Some of us begin to walk to a Metro station, to head home. Some board buses. All go with God.

On this Monday of Holy Week, I give thanks for my brothers and sisters who cared enough about violence to come long distances, to walk, or to offer prayers from afar on our behalf. I have not walked so far in about two years, so yes, I am very weary and I’m sure my legs and feet will talk to me tonight. But it was good to see friends from near and far, to walk together for something greater than ourselves, to be a public witness against violence. By the end, my feet were cold, but my heart was not. The walk was good for my soul.

“Of whom all nature hath creation, eternal Father, Spirit Word: praise to the Lord of my salvation, salvation is of Christ the Lord.”

© The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton (Pictures by McJilton)

Hymn #370 in The 1982 Hymnal, “St. Patrick’s Breastplate.”

Salvation: A New Way of Living

Salvation. Marcus Borg calls this word “a loaded word.” Author Kathleen Norris calls it one of her “scary words”—included in a group of words like “incarnation,” “revelation,” “atonement,” etc.

I am familiar with the loaded nature of the word “salvation” and the fear it invokes. As the oldest child of a southern Baptist minister, I have heard about salvation all of my life. The importance of accepting Jesus Christ as my Savior and being saved—that is, going to heaven when I die and not to the fires of hell—was stressed over and over. I found myself wondering about this seemingly bi-polar God who was full of love one moment, and in another, full of wrath and judgment. Was God really like this?

What a relief it was for the Episcopal Church to encourage me to use my intellect, to explore the original meanings of words like salvation. I felt like I could exhale when I learned that salvation has many meanings in the original languages. The Hebrew word for salvation, as Kathleen Norris reminded me, “means literally ‘to make wide’ or ‘to make sufficient’” This concept makes sense to me. It is also one that Marcus Borg reiterates in his own way. Liberation from bondage. Return from exile. Rescue from peril. Salvation is a new way of living, of transformation.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” For the past several years, this phrase in the Lord’s Prayer has tugged at me. What does that mean? For what are we praying? If God’s will is to be done on earth just like it is in heaven, what does that look like? What would I have to do to make that prayer a reality?

Here is where I think salvation comes in. I agree with Borg’s premise that being saved is not about what happens after I take the last breath I will take in this life. I now believe in salvation as a way of transformation (and I use that word “believe” as we do in the Creed—something to which I give my heart). If I have an adult fear about salvation, it is that after I take my last breath, the question I will face is what I have done in this life that brings God’s transforming love, either to one of God’s beloved creatures or to God’s beloved creation.

The narrow way of salvation that I heard about in my childhood has, itself changed in perception. It is a narrow, difficult way for me to love someone who is not particularly loveable. It is a narrow way for me to pay attention to how much gas I consume as I do errands. It is a narrow way to look at my privileged life and know that others have not had the chance, or the desire, to have decent shelter or enough food or acceptance and love or a good education.

This week, the Laurel Winter Shelter closes. During the bitter cold, a variety of congregations provide shelter for men and women, each taking the groups on a weekly basis. St. Philip’s Parish hosts both men and women the week after Christmas. There is, of course, not universal agreement about the overall theology of what congregations should be doing for the homeless. Some congregations believe that we must proclaim salvation to our homeless guests as John 14:6 proclaims—that singularly Christian, narrow path to God. They do not believe that a literal salvation from winter’s bitter cold or hospitality and a listening heart is all that we should do for homeless folks.

Because I lived in that culture for my formative years and understand that viewpoint, I no longer agree with it. I come to God’s salvation, that wide place of shalom and love, out of my experience, my Christian heritage, my heart and my intellect. I believe that it is not my role “to get someone saved.” That is for God to do, in God’s way and in God’s time, and I think it may happen out of, and in the midst of, community. What is my role as a Christian believer who lives in community? What do we need to be doing for God’s salvation? I believe it is to live into my understanding of how beloved I am of God, and out of that place of love and acceptance, to turn and love my brothers and sisters. How each of us does that is different. Yet we are all called into community to play a part in God’s salvation. We must each ask ourselves what we can do to make this world, in real time, show more of God’s love and fullness. Perhaps that will mean a literal salvation of someone’s life, especially in the cold winter. Perhaps that will mean a larger salvation as we break bread together with someone and take the time to listen to their stories. Perhaps salvation happens as we work for justice with social or political structures—justice that will result in the transformation of lives.

In this salvation, there is no fear. There is only love.

© The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton

Source: Kathleen Norris, Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith, (New York: The Berkley Publishing Company, 1998), 20.