I did not preach this morning. Months ago, we had asked the Rev. Kirk Kubicek to help us kick off our Fall Stewardship Campaign by preaching at both services, and by leading an Adult Forum. So I had the rare experience of hearing someone else’s voice proclaim the good news. How ironic. We kicked off the Fall Stewardship Campaign in the midst of falling economic debris. On Friday, despite my best intentions, I kept checking the Dow Industrial Average. It was like watching some horror movie. I didn’t want to peek, yet I couldn’t keep myself from checking. And at the end of the day, while stocks had recovered a little, they were still under 9,000.

Kirk talked about the irony in his sermon. He said (and I agree) that perhaps we will realize that the current economic crisis, is, in a larger sense, a spiritual one.  For too long, we have conjugated three main verbs (he referenced Evelyn Underhill here):  to have, to want, to do.  Instead, Kirk reminded us that those three verbs belong to our culture’s economy.  The most important verb in God’s economy is TO BE–more to the point, TO BE GOD’S BELOVED. And to know that we are God’s beloved.  He quoted the apostle Paul in today’s Philippians reading:  Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your request be known to God. Yeah, Paul, that’s easy for YOU to say. . .

I sat and looked out at my congregation. I know too many of their stories by now, even in one year’s time, to rest easily in that seat on the altar. There are a number of folks on fixed incomes. Some struggle with cancer or disabilities. Some care for elderly parents. There are several who have lost their jobs.  There are many others who are worried that they will lose their jobs.  Most people have not had to work within a monthly budget–maybe never before–and suddenly, we realize that too many of us have enjoyed the music. Now the piper has shown up at the door demanding payment. But no one has taught them budgeting skills. The younger ones never lived through the Great Depression, so they have never seen such times in their lives. No one has taught them how to say no to their children. And here we are, their parish church, working to put a 2009 budget together and depending on the people of God. The people of God who look worried.

Do not worry about anything. Paul wrote this letter to the church in Philippi while he was in prison. In other parts of the letter, we get some glimpses of real people who suffered and worked hard. We hear about Paul’s colleagues in ministry and mission who were rejected, suffered from illness or dealt with the day to day difficulties of preaching the gospel to folks who don’t care. In today’s reading, Paul even named two women (Euodia and Syntyche) who were in leadership positions, asking the Philippians to help them. And despite the difficulties life presented, Paul encouraged his people from his prison cell:  Rejoice in the Lord always; again, I will say, rejoice. . .The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be known to God.

It is so difficult NOT to worry. I know. I am a worrier by nature; now that my people are worried as they face difficult financial times, I find that I worry about them. How can I best serve my people in such a difficult time? How can I be a calm leader who, rather than get consumed by worry, makes conscious decisions to be God’s beloved, and model that in some small way? How can I encourage and nurture them, yet still challenge them to give for God’s mission and ministry in this parish?

Yesterday afternoon, after working in my yard (on Friday and yesterday) to clean out flower beds, to cut plants back, to rake, I took a break.  It was a sunny, warm fall afternoon, so I went to the basement to find my beach chair. Then I exchanged my sneakers for Birkenstocks, and sat out on the back porch reading a book. I revelled in the warmth of the sun and at the sight of my carefully arranged pumpkins and mums down the back steps.

At about 5:00, a trio of robins suddenly landed in the back yard. A fourth joined them. Then another, small gray bird (titmouse? Not sure. . .) landed briefly.  Meantime, several squirrels were chasing each other up and down nearby trees. For just a few minutes, I put my book down and just watched to see how long the birds would stay. They did not stay long, but had I kept reading, or if I had not been sitting there in that spot on my little back porch, I would have missed their beauty.

For just a few minutes, I rested and took in God’s creation and creatures, and enjoyed the late fall afternoon with the sun setting behind my garage. For just a few minutes, I did not think about what I have or don’t have, what I want or don’t want, what I needed to do or not do. I just was. And in those moments, I thanked God for God’s abundance.

I cannot promise that I won’t worry about my own beloved group of Philippians. Yet I will promise that I will pray more, especially for those worried faces I saw this morning as I looked out over the congregation. I will increase my own pledge. And I will see if I can find someone who can come to the parish to teach folks how to make and honor a monthly budget.

Most importantly, I will love and serve those sheep whom God has given me to tend. I will feed them to the best of my ability, and ask God to make me a channel of peace, calm, love and blessing.

Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

I am God’s beloved. I have come through the waters of baptism. I have felt the sign of the cross made on my forehead throughout the years–sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own forever. I am God’s beloved. And so are you. Rejoice with me in that truth, my beloved. And I again, I say, REJOICE!

My mother died thirty one years ago, way too early (she died of breast cancer at age fifty six). Had she lived, she would be 87 now. I was thinking about Mama yesterday as I washed some white lacy curtains that hang in my dining room, then hung them out on the little clothesline on my back porch.As I was hanging the damp curtains, I remember Mama hauling this little clothes carrier on wheels to the back yard, then wiping down every clothesline before hanging sheets, towels, and clothes. The wiping down was a ritual–it had to be done first. Later, after the sheets, towels and clothes had flapped on the line for most of the day, and we helped Mama take the towels off the line, I remember how we could smell the sun in them. Nowadays, in many neighborhoods, clothes lines are banned. (Thank God, not in mine.)  We didn’t have a clothes dryer in that parsonage in Hickory as long as we lived there. And in the next house, what a luxury it felt like, to get towels and sheets out of the dryer, warm and soft. So we got out of that clothesline habit.

The other thing that made me think of Mama yesterday was washing plastic bags. Several years ago, I bought this little brown ‘bag dryer,” so I can wash and dry plastic bags and re-use them–until they get a hole in them. As I was washing several bags and hanging them on the little wooden dryer yesterday, I remembered how amusing I used to think it was that Mama saved “tin foil” as she called it–cleaning it, folding it, then re-using it. At the time, I thought she was being cheap. Now here I am, washing and re-using plastic storage and freezer bags, because they’re made of petroleum products and they are quite expensive.

In the past two weeks, there has been no way to escape the economic situation in which this country has found itself. Of course as usual, public officials have shifted quickly into REACT AND BLAME mode–something folks seem to do too easily. Almost no one wants to take responsibility, they just want to point a finger and blame someone–Wall Street, mortgage companies, the government, people who did not use good judgment when they bought houses beyond their own means, etc., etc.  And of course, we’ve heard, again and again, that this country is in the worst economic crisis it’s been in since the Great Depression.

Maybe that is true, maybe it isn’t. I know that my mother and father both lived through the Great Depression. That time shaped their lives in some ways I know, and no doubt, in many ways that I do not. They lived on one salary for years, saving my mother’s teacher’s salary. Daddy always had a huge vegetable garden in summertime. Mama and Grandma spent many hot summer days freezing, canning and pickling so that three adults and three hungry children would have food all winter long. Daddy also worked out arrangements with local farmers, to have a share of beef and pork every year for the family. It was years before the family had two cars.

It is no longer the 1950’s or ’60’s. Fifty years later, we Americans think nothing of buying pre-packaged food, or buying out-of-season fruit, even when it comes from far-away places. We buy water in plastic bottles, then toss the bottles into the trash without thinking. In most families, everyone who has a driver’s license has a car, and very few of us carpool or even stop to consider whether we really need to run that errand or not. We eat so much fat-filled fast food that one of our major problems now is obesity–and that includes our children.

Meanwhile, oil prices are sky-high, the fight is on about whether we should do off-shore drilling or not, food prices sky-rocket, and suddenly, folks are being run over by an economic situation we should have seen coming like a freight train down the tracks.

What I find absolutely amazing is that NO ONE inside the Beltway (and certainly no one running for Prez or Vice Prez) will dare say to people what needs to be said.  The folks “in charge” talk good talk: about new fuel-efficient cars and guidelines–or about the need to find alternatives to energy sources. There is some encouragement, in urban areas, to car pool. But NO ONE says “Hey America, stop driving so much!” or “Think, people. Think about how you can conserve gas, electricity, or water.” While lots of folks laughed at Jimmy Carter all those years ago when he donned a sweater and cut the thermostats back at the White House, it looks like the last laugh may be on us.  As human beings, we need to use our common sense and change our wasteful habits. Turn the thermostat back this winter and put a sweatshirt and socks on. Think about the errands we need to run, and try to coordinate them so that we take fewer trips to the store. Make a grocery list, cut coupons, and stick to the list. Drive a little bit slower (not something yours truly likes at all, may I just say). If we don’t have budgets, maybe it’s time to make a monthly budget and stick to it.

Now as a priest and pastor, I’m getting ready to do what lots of us are getting ready to do–jump head-first into the Fall Stewardship Campaign. (Great timing, don’t you think?)  Yet I am going to try to use some common sense for myself, and encourage my folks to do the same. And I am hopeful that we’ll move ahead at church to be good stewards of our physical plant resources. Replacing 1980’s vintage air conditioning units will have an initial outlay, but will likely cut our fuel costs over the long run. Our Property Core Team has had two good sets of doors installed in our parish hall in the past six months. That should help as well. So while we can’t do absolutely everything that we need to do, we’re at least thinking about how to manage our resources in order to maximize them.

On the personal end, maybe our spending habits as Americans have just gotten way out of control.  It’s high time to stop justifying every want as a need. Time to say no to our children whose rooms are filled with stuff. Time to be proactive instead of reactive. Time to take responsibility. Time to change. (Yes, we can.)

My God, I think my Mama still lives. . .and that’s a good thing. Thanks, Mama. You were right about that tin foil. Now, off to wash some bags. . .

 “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 2:5)

Those of us who are parents are familiar with the old divide and conquer strategy, which our children use in such masterful ways.  A child goes to Mom, who’s doing something in one room, and he asks for something he wants. Mom says no. This same child then goes to Dad, who’s doing something in another room, and he asks for the very same thing. Dad says yes. Now this child knew from the beginning what he was doing. He knew that if his parents form a united front, he is not likely to get what he wants. Yet if he can pit one parent against the other, he may very well comes out on top. However, the cost of this victory can be pretty high

Divide and conquer. The house divided.  Divide and conquer might work for the short term, but the unified family endures best. When two people—or two groups—hold opposing viewpoints yet work with unified hearts, the perspective changes. To be united in purpose. In full accord and of one mind. The same love. The same mind that was in Christ Jesus. 

When the apostle Paul writes these words to the Christians in Philippi, he urges love and unity. There is both urgency and long-range perspective revealed in this letter. That is because the apostle Paul is very likely sitting in a prison in Rome. Paul had known that when he decided to go to Rome, he would probably never leave alive. Now, Paul senses that he does not have much time left. So he must write this letter to his children in the faith, to help them understand just how high the stakes are. The Christian faith must not die when its leaders die. And if the Christian faith is to live on, those in the family of faith must come to a place of unity in Christ.

As twenty first century readers, we are not told just what this family fight in Philippi is all about. However, it is clear that “internal dissension is threatening the love, unity, and fellowship of the community.”[i]  Paul tells them, “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves.”  So regardless of the exact details about this family fight, it is clear that that selfish ambition, conceit and proud posturing are all part of it.  Paul knows that a house divided against itself may struggle along for a while. However, in the long run, a house divided against itself will not stand. Perhaps some ethics, some standards by which to live, would help.

Now the first-century Hellenistic world does have its own ethical standards of behavior. Yet Paul calls the Christian family to a higher standard of behavior. Look at Jesus, he reminds them. Remember the kind of person Jesus was and how Jesus behaved. Even though Jesus has come as the Messiah of God, Jesus does not preen and posture like some young prince who expects the common folk to bow down before him. No. Jesus gives up divine rights. He takes on human flesh and becomes one of us. In the human picture, Jesus is a nobody. A child born to a poor carpenter and his wife in a little nothing town. Jesus takes on the nature of not just a human being, but a poor human being—one no better than a common servant. A slave.

As an adult, Jesus wanders around Palestine for three years with a little group of devoted disciples. He preaches, teaches, heals. He associates with people on the margins of society. For three years, everything Jesus says and does causes people to shake their heads—either in wonder or in disbelief. Is he the Christ or is he crazy? Sometimes it is hard to tell the difference. Jesus says and does some pretty radical things for three years—things that anger the leaders of the institutional church so much, they get rid of him. They co-opt one of Jesus’ disciples, trump up false charges, then hand him over to the Romans. Kill Jesus? Not us. The government did that. All we ever wanted to do was to teach him a lesson about who has authority. Who’s in charge. We wouldn’t kill him—we’re family. And families don’t treat each other like that. Right? Right.

Paul sees a Christian family in Philippi that does not treat each other very well, even after Jesus showed them how to be witnesses of God’s love. The Philippian church is divided by internal fighting. Paul knows that the Christian faith will not endure in a hostile world if the Christian family remains divided. So he points them back to Jesus. Back to the cross. He reminds the church in Philippi that the perfect model for love and unselfish behavior is Jesus Christ. And today, it is just as critical that this church in Laurel, Maryland be reminded about the perfect model for love and unselfish behavior. It is Jesus Christ.

You and I are the first people to teach our children about loving and unselfish behavior. We will never get that kind of love, nor that kind of model, from the world. We get that from our most perfect model of love and unselfishness: Jesus of Nazareth. Jesus could have chosen to be among the wealthy and powerful. Instead, Jesus chose to be with people with whom no one else would associate: the poor who had absolutely no power and no authority. Jesus chose to pick up a towel and basin, to wash people’s feet as if he were a common servant. Jesus chose to be obedient to God’s call. He gave up everything, absolutely everything, when he was willing to die on a cross.

The apostle Paul writes a letter to his children in the faith. He reminds them of the Christ who was willing to give up everything. Stop fighting, Paul says. Listen to me. Look beyond yourselves and your silly squabbles. Look beyond yourself to a greater unity. A greater love. Paul writes, “If you have any encouragement from being united with Christ. . . If you have any comfort from his love. . .If you have any fellowship with the Spirit. . .If you have any tenderness and compassion,    then make my joy complete. If you remember who your perfect model is, and love the way he did, then you will be one in spirit and purpose. You will do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. You will consider others better than yourselves.”

If and then. Actions lead to consequences. If you really believe something, then your actions will show those beliefs. Jesus asks, “Do you love me?” If you do, then sell all that you have and follow me. “Do you love me? Then pick up your cross and follow me.” Do you love me? If so, then love each other, even when the other is not easy to love. You want to save your life? Then lose it first for my sake.  Only then will you find life that is worth living.

The way of the cross is narrow. The traffic on that road will never be heavy. Humility can look suspiciously like a codependent doormat. Servanthood can look suspiciously like a disingenuous political move. Christian unity may look good in idealistic theory. But in reality, Christian unity is not very neat or tidy. So how can we possibly work out what Paul calls “salvation with fear and trembling” when it looks impossible? We can’t really—at least not all by ourselves. We must depend upon divine help, praying that God will guide us, step by step, day by day, along that narrow road to the cross. We also must depend on each other, in community. We don’t have to agree with each other about everything we do or how we do it in a particular community. However, we do have to agree with each other about an ethical standard of behavior. We love God first. We love each other second. We treat each other the way we want to be treated.            

Further, we come together to worship,to learn more about who this Jesus of Nazareth was and how he behaved in the world in which he lived. Then we do our best to live the way Jesus lived. Will we always get it right? No, because we are broken human beings stumbling along the road. Yet the sum of us Christians really is greater than each of our individual parts. When I care about you and your interests more than my own, the family of God is strengthened. When you care about someone else more than your own welfare and interests, the family of God is strengthened. What builds you up builds me up, and vice versa. When we work together in this way, we can build the Kingdom of God on earth in a way that glorifies God. Of the same mind. Having the same love. In full accord and of one mind, through Christ Jesus our Lord. Amen.

© The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton

I have been reflecting a lot about just what it is that brings people to church. After the resurrection, when Jesus asked Peter, “Peter, do you love me?” and Peter said, “Yes, Lord, you know I love you,” then Jesus replied, “Feed my lambs.” The second time, Peter replied the same way and Jesus said, “Tend my sheep.”  The third time Jesus asked the question, Peter said, “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” And Jesus said, “Feed my sheep.”

Now we always talk about Jesus, the Good Shepherd. And often, we make the jump from Jesus as Shepherd to bishops and priests being shepherds. In fact, in the service for Ordination of a Bishop, one thing included in the first address to the bishop-elect is “and to be in all things a faithful pastor and wholesome example for the entire flock of Christ.”

The words sheep, shepherd and flock are not used in the Ordination of a Priest. Instead, we priests in the Episcopal Church are called to love, to serve our people, to care alike for all people, to preach, to absolve, to pronounce God’s blessing, “to share in the administration of Holy Baptism and in the celebration of the mysteries of Christ’s Body and Blood, and to perform the other ministrations entrusted to you.”  I like that. “To share in. . .” reminds me that I am not a solitary celebrant in the two major sacraments of the Church–Holy Baptism and Eucharist. No, I am part of a community of faith that gathers to welcome a new child of God into God’s kingdom through the waters of baptism. I am part of a community as I invite people, through the blessing of bread and wine, into the holiness of God. I bless, then offer, the gifts of God to the people of God. They, in turn, bless me with the gifts of themselves–their expectant faces, their open hands, the warmth of their babies’ skin as I make the sign of the cross on little foreheads (pre-baptism, of course).

In my Adult Inquirers’ Class this morning, we were talking about some of the recent divisions in the Episcopal Church and Anglican Communion. We only have a one hour class, so you can imagine the challenge in giving the Reader’s Digest version of “schism in the Church”!  However, it led into another conversation about hospitality, welcome, and table fellowship. The Adult confirmation group had been able to move from a larger meeting room (where we’d met for the first time last Sunday) into a smaller room. I really wanted to do this. Not only is the second room smaller, but it has a round table rather than the big rectangular one in the larger room.

A circle seems more welcoming. Smaller, more intimate space seems more welcoming. And once the eight of us gathered around the table, with the three candles sitting among smooth stones, we became a community in a way we had not been last Sunday.

We talked about formal table fellowship–the Eucharist with a presider, with bread and wine taken, blessed, broken, given.  We talked about informal table fellowship–Coffee Hour, which is just as important to folks–a time to catch up with friends and to make new ones, or dinner at home eaten with family, or dinner out with good friends.  I reminded the group that Jesus of Nazareth loved a good party. We have lots of accounts in the gospels of Jesus either being host or guest at all kinds of parties–with all kinds of people. So Jesus embodied welcome and hospitality. (Hmmm, do you think the Church will ever really get this?)

There had been a renewal of vows at the National Cathedral yesterday for married couples who’d been married for 25 years or more. I knew of one couple who were going for that, and so it gave me the idea to do our own St. Philip’s acknowledgement and blessing.  We’d solicited names and wedding dates, and at both services today, I invited those couples who had stuck together through sickness and health, for richer, for poorer, through children and fights and illnesses–all those folks came up front. TI also invited widows and widowers who’d been married for 25 years or longer when they lost their spouses to come up as well. I thought they deserved to be recognized too.  Then I prayed the prayer from The Blessing of the Marriage.  I told them that a bride and groom kneeling in front of me never remember this prayer because they are too nervous and excited. And the rest of them never remember because they are too anxious to get to the reception! They all laughed, of course.  But I think this prayer (on page 430 of the BCP, in case you happen to have one handy) is one of the most beautiful in the prayer book. At the later service, about the time I got to “Bless them in their work and in their companionship; in their sleeping and in their waking; in their joys and in their sorrows; in their life and in their death,” I caught a peripheral glimpse of a chancel area full of ordinary human beings who, in my estimation, have done an incredible thing by remaining faithful to each other.  And with that glimpse, I had to fight to keep my voice steady. Suddenly, that space felt very holy to me, and somehow I knew that we were all being fed.

Later, as I held the brown bread up and broke it, after blessing it, I realized it felt solid and good and nourishing. People walked down the aisle to receive bread and wine–some walking steadily, some not so much, some pushing reluctant children ahead of them, some carrying their babies for a blessing. Folks held out their open hands, and I did what Jesus told me to do. Feed my lambs. Tend my sheep. Feed my sheep.

At the end, after I had proclaimed, “Let us bless the Lord!” we all trooped noisily and happily over to Coffee Hour, where much coffee and many doughnuts were consumed, by folks sitting at tables and standing in small groups. From the door, I watched the family gather again and I realized how much they feed me. I pray that I am worthy of such a banquet. 

Back to my original thought about what it takes for folks to come to Church. I suspect that people are hungry. Oh, they can get bread and wine at the grocery store. They can get together with families and friends. But they are spiritually starved to death, and when they gather for Eucharist, I think they are often deeply thankful–even when they cannot articulate this.

Further, despite computer technology and the internet, people are also lonely. We are human beings and we need other human beings. We are hungry for each other–for companionship, for the fellowship of another person at the table. We are hungry for love and acceptance and welcome.

Perhaps if the people of God learn how to be truly hospitable in the same radical way the Good Shepherd was when he partied with all sorts and kinds of folks, we will learn how to feed God’s lambs, to tend God’s sheep, to feed God’s sheep. With more of us sitting at the Welcome Table, perhaps fewer of us will have to beg for bread or to wonder where to find it.

I suppose I should be waxing eloquent about yesterday’s deposition of Bishop Bob Duncan by the House of Bishops, yet I’m sure some of my brothers and sisters have already done so, or will. (See links to the right for some of them.)  From the accounts on Jim Naughton’s blog (episcope), it sounds as if the deliberations were serious, thoughtful and prayerful, and of course, the whole business is sad. While I think that ultimately, whatever re-formed and re-shaped diocese Pittsburgh becomes, people are hurt on both sides, and I am particularly praying for those brothers and sisters in that diocese who want to remain aligned with The Episcopal Church. I keep reminding myself that God is in charge.

This week was definitely a full moon kind of week, and a busy one, but I was not too busy to notice that the edge is off summer’s heat, and the nights are noticeably cooler now.  This evening, before dinner, I decided to go out and cut back several plants that have needed some attention for a while. I ended up going to the garage and retrieving the rake, and before I knew it, I had a big pile of leaves and plant debris.  How odd it felt to be raking leaves again! Fall has arrived, I suppose–even though not yet officially until two days from now. It did my soul good to work in the yard, even though I wasn’t out there very long. Perhaps I’ll do some more tomorrow.

Tonight, I wrote a couple of notes to friends while I listened to Bach organ music. Beyond the screen doors, I could hear the background music of fall crickets. I love the sound–as long as the little critters stay outside and don’t bring their music inside. Yes, I know they’re supposed to bring good luck, but I don’t care for their noise, and their jumping around makes my Kitty Boy think he’s the Great Hunter. Which he is not. 

Speaking of the Great Hunter, he has been smelling mousy kind of smells this week (yes, the little varmints have found their way into a space behind the kitchen counters, but thankfully, they can’t escape the area they’re in, and maybe after today, they can’t get in because of the steel wool I stuffed in the open places). The Lion King Baby has been seen to be crouching near the cabinets looking most interested in these new odeurs, but the other night, I think the mouse scampered around back there, and the Great Hunter jumped like he’d been shot, then ran to hide. Useless feline. But he is handsome, so I guess I’ll keep him.

“Lord. . .how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?”

“Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy times seven.”(Matt 18:21-35)

Peter has had some mixed experiences with Jesus as of late. At one point, he confesses Jesus as the Messiah, and Jesus responds by promising to build the church on the rock of Peter. Not long after that, however, Peter tries to persuade Jesus that going to Jerusalem to suffer and die isn’t the best idea in the world, and Jesus responds by calling Peter Satan.

So maybe when Peter becomes curious about this forgiveness business, he is more than a little nervous. He’s been around Jesus long enough now to know that Jesus often does something unexpected and more generous than most folks, so he hedges his bets with this question. The convention of the time was that you got three pardons for forgiveness, so Peter figures he will double that and add one, and that should please Jesus.

Instead, Jesus responds with an unbelievable number, then launches into a story of higher math. The numbers Jesus uses in his parable about the king and the slave who owes him, and the slave who owes his fellow slave, are ridiculous ones. One talent equals 6,000 denarii, which is equivalent of one day’s wages. Ten thousand talents? You can’t live long enough to pay that back. And so Jesus compares ten thousand talents with a tiny amount, a hundred denarii, and the hyperbolic nature of the story is immediately obviously to Jesus’ listeners.

Jesus is making a point about God’s love, God’s graciousness and mercy, God’s abundant well of forgiveness.

How often should I forgive my brother or sister, Lord? Seven times?  No, you should forgive your brother or sister seventy times seven. In other words, if you’re counting, it isn’t really forgiveness.  You’re just keeping score, right?

Seven years and three days ago, most of us remember, with crystal clarity, where we were and what we were doing at 8:43 a.m. An American Airlines plane had crashed into the north tower at the World Trade Center. And then at 9:03, a United Airlines plane flew into the south tower at the World Trade Center.   Within hours, a third plane had crashed into a wing of the Pentagon, and a fourth—its deadly path thwarted by passengers—crashed into a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

Seven years and three days ago, a series of events stopped our lives in their tracks, and changed forever this nation and this world.

2,751 people died in the Twin Towers.

184 people died at the Pentagon, including 64 passengers on American Airlines Flight #77.

44 people died in a field in Somerset County, Pennsylvania on United Airlines Flight #93.

Out of the 2,751 people killed in the Twin Towers, only 289 bodies were found intact, and 1,717 families got no remains at all.

I remember that day so vividly. I remember the scenes of shocked, dazed people fleeing across the Brooklyn Bridge in suits and ties, covered with the dust of debris of the towers—dust that included the dust of their dead brothers and sisters.

I remember the pictures of firefighters’ shoes sitting on the curb, left when they put their boots on to head to the fiery scene.

I remember the doctors and nurses and medical staff hurrying to hospitals to await the arrival of the injured—only to realize, finally, that there were very few injured. So few had survived. And out of 36,000 units of blood donated by generous-hearted people, only 258 of those units were used. 

I remember how amazed I was, later, to learn that 20% of Americans knew someone who was either injured or killed on September 11, 2001.

How often should I forgive my brother or sister, Lord? Seven times? No, seventy times seven. Honey, just stop it. You can’t do the math. The math doesn’t work.

Isn’t it ironic that today’s gospel is about forgiveness?  Seven years and three days after one of the worst days in our history, Jesus tells us a story about forgiveness.  Jesus tells us that God’s forgiveness is so abundant, so generous, and so incalculable, we can’t even understand it as human beings.

I remember that after 09/11, there seemed to be two major and dichotomous reactions. One was “We have to forgive them.” Well, that came from people who believe that God forgives, and so maybe as Christians, we have to do that too.  The other reaction was “We’ve got to go after those terrorists and protect our people.” So on one end of the spectrum was forgiveness. On the other was revenge.  Now maybe we did need to act quickly and defensively in order to protect our citizens from future attacks.

However, what I would argue is that this nation was not allowed to grieve, because none of us like grief.  And so we have not really been able to move from those first paralyzing moments of horror and terror at the tragedy of 09/11 into full wholeness and healing.

The truth of the matter is that forgiveness is not a moment. It is, like grief, a process.  And until you have moved from the first experience of loss through a process of grief, you cannot really forgive.

Grief is an odd thing.  In grief, we experience shock, denial, bargaining, confusion, depression, often scapegoating and blame, bitterness and anger.  It takes a long time of wandering through the valley of the shadow of death until we come to a place of acceptance and forgiveness.  And in our modern American culture, we don’t acknowledge that, nor do we know how to do the grieving thing well.

I remember when President Ronald Reagan died on June 5, 2004.  As his body was driven through cities in California and through Washington DC, as it was on display at the Capitol Rotunda, thousands of people thronged to the streets and to the Rotunda to witness the cortege.  His state funeral lasted six days. Now Ronald Reagan had been completely out of the public eye for ten years, suffering from Altzheimer’s Disease. He had left the White House as president in 1989.  I found myself watching television, absolutely amazed at the outpouring of grief over a president who would not, I venture to guess, be classified as “beloved.” (Maybe I’m wrong about that. . .)  I wondered what in the world all this seemingly out of proportion grief was all about. And suddenly I thought, “This is grief over 09/11.  This country has not been allowed to grieve completely about 09/11.  We were pushed to revenge, to war, to fight terrorists. We were encouraged to go shopping, to go about our normal lives as if nothing had happened.  And so all this grief has not been expressed by people. Here is a legitimate outlet for it.”

Forgiveness. Not a moment. A process.  Of course some people reduce it to simplistic terms. “I’m sorry.”  “That’s okay.”  Liar, liar, pants on fire.  How many times do we say “I’m sorry,” but don’t really mean it. Or we respond, “That’s okay” when it is not. And sometimes we never really get to forgiveness.  I had times in my own life, as I raised a son alone, that I was filled with anger, bitterness, and a desire for revenge on some level. Thankfully, with help from a therapist, I slowly worked through the process of grief. Finally, I was able to come to a realization that my anger and bitterness was not hurting the one I wanted it to hurt. It was destroying my own soul, and taking a lot of time and energy that I could better use in other ways. And so finally, with God’s help, I let that anger and bitterness go. I made a conscious decision to use my time and energy in more constructive ways, in more healing ways to take care of myself, and in turn, of my son. I hope both of us are healthier and more whole human beings because of the help I received.

Back to the gospel. It does seem to beg this question: what happens when someone who should ask for forgiveness does not?  I don’t remember Saddam Hussein asking the American people or his own people for forgiveness before he was hanged, do you? And I’m betting the farm that Osama Bin Laden—in whatever cave he’s hanging out right now—is not on his knees asking the American people for forgiveness.  So what happens when someone does not ask for forgiveness?  Where are we left then?

Here is where our lives meet the truth of the gospel.  We cannot forgive the way we need to forgive.  Honey, we just can’t do that math.  God is One of such high math, it’s beyond our ken to get there.  This gospel leaves us—unfortunately—with far more questions than answers. That is frustrating on many levels, and I know I have many brothers and sisters who have the answers.  There are many religious folks who believe God’s mouth is close to their ears. And so they want to tell the rest of us what God says, what God thinks, what God believes.  Personally, I am more afraid of those kinds of people than I am of death.   How can we possibly know what God knows or wants? That is the height and depth of arrogance. God is so much bigger, and deeper, and mysterious, and holy, than any human being has the mind or heart to comprehend. And so the best way we can approach the Truth of God is with much humility and the acknowledgement that we glimpse that Truth dimly. Only when we meet God, face to face, will we get more knowledge. And I’ve got a suspicion that even then, God will still have more to teach than we will ever be able to learn—even on the larger side of Life.

So in the meantime, we must approach this forgiveness thing slowly, one step at a time. We realize that we, pitiful human beings, can only go so far with forgiveness. We must be accountable, each one of us, for our own stuff, and stop spending so much energy and time blaming and judging our brothers and sisters.   We must work our way through grief, and hopefully, come to a place of forgiveness.  Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors? I don’t know about you, but I sure do not want God to forgive me with the same cup of forgiveness I use for my brothers and sisters.  What I want is for God to show me how to live, slowly, minute by minute, in a way that is open and vulnerable and centered in the holiness of God—as much as a broken, sinful human being can live. And then I am going to trust God to fill in the gap with God’s higher math.

Romans 13:8-14

“Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law.” (Rom 13:8)

 Love, love, love. Over the past few weeks, we have watched a kaleidoscope of images on television and computer screens. A veritable avalanche of words—in newspapers, magazines, and on the internet—has alternately praised or criticized. A cacophony of voices has poured into our ears—some soothing, some strident, some quite matter of fact. However, despite the deluge of words, the only time I heard the word love was either when someone talked about loving our country, or when they gushed sentimental words about a particular political candidate

At the same time we’ve enjoyed—or endured—two national political conventions, other images have assailed our eyes and ears. Three years after Hurricane Katrina’s devastation, Hurricane Gustav forced thousands of people to flee their homes and businesses. While New Orleans did not take a direct hit from Gustav and the levees did hold—thanks be to God—there is much damage,  and electrical power is still out in many parts of Louisiana. And then there are our brothers and sisters in Cuba and Haiti—especially in Haiti. These folks have suffered through Tropical Storm Fay, Gustav, and now Hanna. On Friday morning, an Associated Press article reported that “Tropical Storm Hanna killed 137 Haitians and drowned Gonaives in muddy water.”[i]  When a U.N. Convoy tried to deliver food and water to hungry children at three orphanages in Gonaives, they could not. After forty five minutes of inching along mud-caked and semi-paved roads, they were forced to turn back when they came to a ten-foot wide chasm in the road—caused by flooding.

“Owe no one anything, except to love one another.”  In the past week, I have thought about the reading from Romans and wondered how it connects to the sights and sounds around the United States and beyond our shores. Perhaps it has to do with one human being’s connection with another human being, especially in difficult times. Perhaps it has to do with how Christians live out what Jesus has taught us: Love your neighbor as much as you love yourself.

The apostle Paul is well aware of both the teachings of Jesus and the foundational teachings of the Hebrew scriptures. So sometime between 54 and 58 of the Common Era, Paul writes to the Christians in Rome to remind them of the foundations of their faith. “He lists four representative commandments from the Torah—no adultery, no killing, no stealing, no coveting—that are undeniably critical for life in community, and he insists that all the commandments are summed up by one commandment from Leviticus 19:18: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ [Further, Paul] counsels these Christians that ‘love does no harm to a neighbor;  therefore love is the fulfillment of the law’ (13:10.”[ii] So we are commanded, first by the ancient Hebrew code of ethics, then by our Christian code of ethics, to love one another.

There are two inherent dangers in thinking about this code of love ethic. The first is that we see the great need of people in this world—particularly those about whom we’ve heard or seen this week in the news—and we feel the weight of a burden we cannot possibly bear.  There are too many people.  They have too many needs. There is too much death and destruction. We can’t fix all that. So the weight of such a burden of love paralyzes us, and we do nothing.

The second danger is that we will profess, as one writer has noted, “a superficial and saccharine profession of love for the entire world, a love that never manages to find its way into the nitty-gritty of everyday life.”[iii] An old Beatles song comes to mind. “All you need is love,” they sang.

Somehow I don’t think this would comfort the children in three Haitian orphanages who, as of Friday, had not eaten since Monday. Somehow I don’t think this song would amuse the folks waiting in long lines “for ice and food in the sweltering and powerless suburbs of New Orleans on Thursday,”[iv] three days after Gustav blew through the area. Somehow I do not think this song would encourage anyone who has lost his or her job this past year, or to anyone who cares for a loved one suffering from Altzheimers or a chronic illness.  For these folks, love may be all they need, but the kind of love they need is neither superficial nor saccharine.

So what is this love your neighbor business all about? Paul reminds us that Christian love is not some warm, fuzzy, romantic emotion, out of a Hallmark card.Love is a way of life—sometimes a determined will that stands stubbornly against any romanticized idea of love. And this way of life begins the day we are baptized into the Christian faith. That invisible, yet indelible sign of the cross traced on our foreheads at baptism changes us, because it moves us from a secular realm into a spiritual one. The only way that we show the world that change, that transformation, is to live and to love in a way that says, “I am different. I belong to Jesus the Christ.” I know that because I belong to Jesus and call myself a Christian, the kind of love with which I love must be different from superficial or sentimental love. This love of Christ challenges me to behave differently. Not just here, in church on Sunday, but every day, in every area of my life. That means with my family. That means with my co-workers in the office. That means with my friends in school, or on the soccer field. 

It does not matter where we are, or how we feel on a given day. Jesus calls us not simply to say we are Christians, but to act like Christians.  And this, my friends, is not easy. There is always death and destruction in the world—whether from a hurricane, a flood, a famine, or war. There are always financial difficulties and unemployment. There will always be illness and disease. There will always be conflicts within the Body of Christ or families or in any group of human beings. Yet it is precisely in the midst of that conflict, death, destruction, and disease where you and I are to show we belong to Jesus Christ. Otherwise, how will anyone ever be able to—or even want to—be a Christian?

If you have ever thought that being a Christian was easy, think again. It is not. Living out the commandments of Torah and Jesus is not ever easy. Every person we meet is not lovable—not even the person we see in the mirror. Yet we must act as if.  We must act as if the person we see in the mirror, or the person at the family reunion, or the person in church, or the person in the office, is Jesus of Nazareth himself. If we believe that we are made in the image of God, this is logic faithfully followed.

Love, love, love.  “Owe no one anything, except to love one another.”  This week, I invite you to think about how you can love someone as the apostle Paul reminds us we are to love—in a way that does no wrong to someone, in a way that mirrors how you want to be treated. Act as if.  And in acting this way, we will show at least one other person what love really looks like and acts like. We will show at least one other person a glimpse of the Holy One who first created love, the One who continues to change us and shape us in the image of the divine. Amen.

© The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton

Thanks to Tropical Storm Hanna, it is a rainy, sometimes windy Saturday on the DC outskirts. My son, who lives in a Chicago suburb, said they got lots of rain yesterday–the remnants of Hurricane Gustav. And now Hurricane Ike is looming, and, I’m sorry to say, it looks like our friends in the Gulf Coast may be in emergency mode once again.  My friend Grandmere Mimi, has been sending in blog updates from Louisiana as she can (see the link to the right for Wounded Bird and check her out)–we even got an interesting report on what is in one of those MRE’s. Having never had one, I had no clue.

Another link you should check out, and that’s the one of my colleague, Mark Harris, over at Preludium. There, you’ll see an entry with this wonderfully colorful design that’s won a contest at the National Episcopal Church. Paul Fromberg, who currently serves as Interim at St. Gregory of Nyssa parish in San Francisco, has designed this logo, which is to be used at next summer’s 2009 General Convention in Anaheim, California. I’ve had the pleasure of being with Paul a couple of times in the past four years. The first was at CREDO, at a retreat center in California, and the second was when I took a two week continuing education class at Virginia Seminary in January, 2007 with Paul and Daniel Siimon. The course, “From Glory to Glory: Preparing Liturgy that Transforms Lives” was incredible.  During that time, I had dinner with some mutual friends, Paul, and Daniel, and was treated not only to a delicious dinner, but to Paul’s wicked sense of humor. He gets a certain look on his face and a twinkle in his eye, and you know you’re getting ready to hear something that makes you howl with laughter!  I am sorry that we’re on opposite coasts, because I would love to see Paul more often.  But for now, congratulations to Paul for such a beautiful expression of UBUNTU, the theme of next summer’s GC.  Check out the Preludium link for more info on this, as well as the usual naysayers about such things.

Last weekend’s Labor Day holiday signalled the official ending of summer vacations and schedules. Tomorrow at St. Philip’s, we will have Ministry Opportunity Sunday, sponsored and planned by our hard-working Stewardship Committee. Folks will get the chance to sign up for all kinds of ministries for the year, we’ll register the kids for Sunday School, and at the 10:15 service, I will do an official Blessing of the Backpacks. I would have done that last week, because most of our children and youth have already started school. However, that didn’t seem to be a great idea on a holiday weekend. I’ve never done this kind of thing, so I am really looking forward to seeing the colorful collection of backpacks. I told the kids that if they’re having trouble with a particular subject, put that book in the backpack, and we’ll give it an extra bit of divine juice! Hey, can’t hurt, might help! But mostly, we’ll be blessing the people who carry those backpacks. God bless ‘em, every one.

It’s been a good summer, and it is with some regret that I let it go–even if I didn’t get addicted to ice cream drumsticks like that Kaeton woman did, over at Telling Secrets. . . I just enjoyed the more relaxed summer schedule in the parish, reveled in a two week Maine vacation complete with the best lobster I’ve ever eaten, and was able to get some parish planning done for the year ahead.  On the other hand, St. P’s and I have just begun our second year together, and there is lots of energy in the air. Upward and onward!

“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.”

Despite some fiercely-held beliefs about the separation between church and state, the cross is still prominent in American society. In fact, so many of us wear crosses as jewelry that we no longer stop to think about it. Is the cross that is worn around someone’s neck a significant symbol, or just a pretty piece of jewelry? What does the cross mean to you? Christians can look back and see the cross of Jesus of Nazareth through the lens of the resurrection. We know that the cross was not the end of the story. However, the first disciples had to learn this truth the hard way. How can a Roman instrument of cruel torture be transformed into God’s love, God’s kingdom?

Jesus’ first disciples must learn about this connection slowly and reluctantly, on the way to Jerusalem. And they are reluctant for two reasons. First, they are too caught up in everyday life with Jesus of Nazareth. Second, at the historical point in time of today’s gospel, Jesus’ ministry is—from all accounts—very successful. Jesus preaches, teaches, heals. Huge crowds follow him. So the disciples are too involved in a successful ministry to imagine an end to it—especially one that involves suffering, pain, and death on a cross. Remember last week’s gospel? Simon Peter confesses Jesus as the Messiah, the Son of the Living God. Jesus praises him. Yes, Simon. And you are now Petros. On this Petra I will build my Church. Now, as Jesus and the disciples get closer to Jerusalem, Jesus begins to talk about suffering: A trial presided over by Jewish elders and priests and scribes. Jesus says he will be killed, and three days later, rise again. Peter wants none of this. Hmmph. If I’m the head of the church, we’ll have none of that kind of talk. We’re going to preach good news and heal people. This church is going to be big and successful and famous.

But the cross will not go away. Long before Judas betrays Jesus, before Peter denies Jesus, before all the disciples abandon Jesus, Jesus knows the cross waits. Do you really want to be my disciple, Peter? Take up your cross and follow me. Do you really want to live with me in resurrection joy? Take up your cross and follow me. Do you really want to know “what would Jesus do?” Take up your cross and follow me.

Jesus knows this truth is difficult to grasp. Note the first few words of this gospel passage: “Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering. . .” Such difficult teaching requires many parables, many prayers, many days down a long and difficult road. It will take hundreds of meals before one last meal becomes sign and symbol of Jesus’ sacrificial gift of life. It will take Judas’ betrayal and Peter’s denial. It will take a mock trial and a cruel death on a Roman cross. It will take Good Friday and Holy Saturday. It will take all these things to happen before the disciples really begin to understand the connection between earthly suffering and eternal joy.

The first disciples had trouble understanding the way of the cross. So do we. We live in a world that has little use for sacrifice or suffering. Walk into any bookstore and you’ll see what I mean. All we have to do to fix our lives is to read a book and follow the guidelines. We can win friends and influence people. In seven easy steps, we can be highly effective people. In seventeen chapters, we can have a purpose-driven life. And if a book won’t fix us, we have other options. Any option that will remove the possibility of sacrifice or suffering. Even some Christians do not get what Jesus was trying to teach us.    For example, some television evangelists preach a theology of abundance. Believe in it, and it is yours. Trust that God will give you wealth and abundance. Believe that God will heal you. Of course the implication is that if you do not believe enough—whatever enough is—your bank account, your self esteem, your health will not improve. But every time I hear these preachers, I wonder how this easy theology of abundance works in the lives of real people: Those who cannot afford health insurance, so end up in the ER for health care. Those who live with chronic disease or chronic pain. Those who struggle to make ends meet in this economy, or single parents trying to raise children. Where is the abundance in that, preacher? What happens when easy answers don’t work in difficult lives?

The truth is that the shadow of the cross falls across any human ideas about faith. Do we really believe in Jesus the Christ? If so, Jesus will not allow us to get away with an easy theology of abundance. Jesus will not allow us to wear a gold cross as just a piece of pretty jewelry. Jesus challenges us: If you want to be my follower, deny yourself. Take up your cross and follow me.

What is your cross? To begin with, your cross may not look like that of your neighbor. Your cross may be that you are estranged from your parents, your sister, your children. Your cross may be that you look successful on the outside, yet inside, you are insecure and lonely. Your cross may be that you work in an office whose ethics and goals look nothing like yours, yet you must keep quiet or lose your job. Your cross may be recovery from an addiction, or depression, or a physical or emotional disability or chronic illness or grief. Your cross may never go away, not in this life. Yet this does not mean that we are to give up. This does not mean we can sit around and complain, or wait for some pie in the sky kind of eternal life.  Christians need to understand that our eternal life does not begin with our death. Our eternal life is now. It begins the day we are baptized, the day we are marked as Christ’s own forever. So even as we bear a daily cross, you and I live an eternal life. As one theologian has said, “We are not human beings on a spiritual journey. We are spiritual beings on a human journey.” [i]

Yet being a spiritual being on a human journey still includes the weight of a cross. Why? Because Jesus felt the weight of his. The irony is that our pain and suffering connects us to God. Pain causes us to pay attention. Pain can be, as one American bishop said recently, “a way to deeper spirituality.”[ii]  Suffering can lead to real transformation of our lives. The world does not understand this. So Jesus challenges us to show the world, with our lives, just as he did with his.

How do we do that? How do we bear our crosses and show God’s love to those around us? How do we allow our suffering to transform us? Perhaps this process begins when we understand that we am not alone. I am not alone with my cross. You are not alone with yours. We spiritual beings are on this human journey together. We walk together. We pray for each other. We break bread together. And in the midst of community, the weight of our crosses feel a little lighter. Somehow, we are changed when, in love, we help each other bear our crosses  Our suffering is transformed when we look beyond our own lives to someone else’s. When one of us really sees, really hears, another.

Pay attention to someone—to her life, to his pain—and you may see God. For God is with and in each one of us. God is in that symbol that we wear around our necks and the one behind this altar. God is in the bread and wine with which we feed each other. With such symbols of cruciform power, we can pick up our cross and follow Jesus. Yes, on that journey, we may lose the kind of life we thought we wanted. Yet the kind of life we will gain is priceless,   the joy beyond anything we can fully see or understand right now. In the hope of such a life, Jesus calls us today to take up our cross. To follow him. As you and I bear our own crosses, may we live in such a way that the world knows the love of Christ—by our lives and with our love. Amen.

© The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton

For most of the summer, I have been doing some of my early morning reading in a new way. After reading the scriptures of the Daily Office and spending some time in prayer, I am reading another book: The Art of Reading Scripture, a collection of essays about how to read and interpret holy scripture, from a number of viewpoints. Ellen Davis and Richard Hays edited this book, and I must admit that it was Ellen’s involvement with the book which initially interested me (as well as the title!)

This is the sort of book which is rather dense and what I might call “head candy.” One doesn’t pick it up and dance one’s way through it. Well, I can’t. I’m sure I have colleagues who could. Nonetheless, with the help of my spiritual director, I began to read the book in the lectio divina method. Prayerfully and slowly. I read a little, I do some underlining, I think about what I’ve read. I am trying to use my heart more and my intellect less–this in itself is a spiritual discipline.   I am also not setting any particular goals for reading. If I read two paragraphs and sit and think about that and call it a morning, I’m okay with that. If I read several pages, that’s okay too.

Something I was reading this morning really caused me to do a full stop, and I re-read the passage about four times. In Richard Bauckham’s essay “Reading Scripture as a Coherent Story,” he contends that biblically, Israel’s story is a story of resistance, against the dominant stories of the powerful empires–from Pharoah to Rome. Okay, that’s pretty obvious if you read carefully.  Then he refers to the books of Daniel and Revelation, where he says we get a greater sense of the ultimate transcendent power of God overcoming all evil, and overcoming all earthly powers.

Bauckham says this: “These visions empower nonviolent resistance to oppression, enabling God’s people to continue to refute the finality and divinity of the empires. They suggest, not that the kingdom of God is merely a more powerful or more successful version of the imperial powers, but that it is an altogether different kind of rule.  The tragic irony of Christian history has been that so often Christian empires have taken over the symbol of the kingdom of God to justify the same kind of rule as that of the empires it was forged to oppose.” (pp 51-52)

Well, if those statements aren’t enough to make a Christian leader stop and think, I am not sure what would.

As I sat and re-read and thought about this truth, I thought about the recent Lambeth Conference. I thought about all the episcopal letters flying from hither to yon. I thought about all the ecclesiastical posturing that we’ve seen and heard from leaders in the Anglican Communion. The talks some leaders talk that don’t quite match the walks of their walk. The seemingly incessant addiction for power and control which hide behind the mask of Scriptural Authority.

If we read scripture closely, we see that God’s people are called to be radically counter-cultural and radically hospitable. Jesus says there are only two real commandments: Love God with all our hearts. Love each other in the same way we love ourselves.  Everything else is small stuff.

God’s kingdom is powerful, but not in displays of arrogant power. And I wonder how God’s leaders can stay grounded in the center of God, listening to the voiceless ones, the ones on the margins, the ones who do not have power, and at the same time grab greedily for power–thus becoming what their baptismal vows have promised to NOT be and do.

Another way to think about this is to ask how those folks who have authority–in our Church, those with purple shirts with bishop’s rings–can help to bring the radical, resistant kingdom of God to earth as it is in heaven without being co-opted into the system.  And if they try to do that, then what kind of help do the leaders need from those of us who are baptized, and some of us who are deacons and priests?

Today, I think I will pray for God’s wisdom and insight about how I can help my own bishop stand firm against the powers and principalities of oppressive empires–whether those are outside the Church or inside it.

I invite you to join me in that prayer, in your own place, for your own ecclesiastical person in power. It can’t hurt. And maybe it will help. God bless the resistance.