“Beware of the scribes, who like to go about in long robes, and love salutations in the market places and the best seats in the synagogues and the places of honor at feasts, who devour widows’ houses and for a pretense make long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.”  Luke 20:46 – 47

I raise money for a living.

It’s easy to get caught up in the romance of this profession.  We brag to others about how we are ‘enabling’ charitable acts and ‘facilitating’ good works.  We enjoy partaking of the trappings of the wealthy:  expensive meals, parties at exquisite homes, conversations with those who are at the center of one power base or another.  It’s heady stuff.

Just as easy is our tendency to forget that there are people in our universe who can’t give lots of money – for whom a $25 gift is a sacrifice.  “We have to pay attention to the 90 – 10 rule” we say.  “90 % of the money will come from 10% of the donors.  So, we have to spend 90% of our time with those wealthy 10%.”  It’s  easy to forget that the other 90% exist at all.

Jesus does not condemn the rich because they are rich.  He condemns those whose station in life has become so meaningful to them that they put aside the need to behave in a gracious and Christian manner.  In exhorting us to ‘love our neighbor as ourselves’ He identifies the linchpin that is the difference between between grateful for the bounty of God’s grace and hording the gifts God grants us to the exclusion of others.

It’s really OK to be a ’scribe’.  We just can’t let it go to our head.

There on the side of the hill he waits.

There, he waits with a promise of redemption.

There, he builds a watchtower, vigilant for those
who are thirsty for sustenance.

There, on the side of the hill, a symphonic caress
spreads fertile joy to delicate blossoms.

There, we tend his vineyards, growing the pure fruit of our faithfulness,
golden grapes of hope and love.

There, he waits for us, knowing that we will drink his
tender and peaceful ambrosia and be transported to a place at his side.

There on the side of the hill.

We wear a mask of solid iron, bonded onto our features by a solder made from the sweat of defensiveness and fear. It’s corrugated surface, rough with the chiseled marks of countless rescue and escape attempts, reveals little of the turmoil beneath.

She alone can see beneath the burnished sheen of the mask. Cringing in shame at the knowledge that our nakedness is so apparent, we shrink from Her knowing scrutiny, retreating to the depths of our wounded selves.

“And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin; yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O men of little faith? Therefore do not be anxious, saying, `What shall we eat?’ or `What shall we drink?’ or `What shall we wear?’ For the Gentiles seek all these things; and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things shall be yours as well. “Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Let the day’s own trouble be sufficient for the day. – Matt. 6:28-34

She pursues us in spite of ourselves. We turn our backs in hopes to hide, but She knows where we are, shining a light on the pathway before us.

The Holy Spirit cleanses us from the soil of faithlessness and fear. She soothes us with the balm of acceptance, forgiveness and salvation. We remove our mask, and in so doing, we become open to the light of the world and the promise of transcendent life in the Spirit.

An apple carries within it the essence of God.

Joy comes when we pursue responsibility, not happiness.

A monumental tragedy may have meaning un-looked-for; un-hoped-for.

Anger lies beneath the surface to rear its ugly head at a moment’s notice.

All this I learned today.

O God, seed of the fruit that feeds our souls,
Help us to break the iron barriers that falsely guard us.
Remind us of the song you sing to us in the depths of our hearts
Telling of the endurance of your love, even when we think we cannot prevail.
Open our eyes to the joy of living wrapped in the comfort of your Presence
So that, in the conquering of fear, we can become worthy of your Grace.

Amen.

Spirit of Christ, the beloved disciple saw in the pouring out of water with the blood from Jesus’ pierced side your outpouring. You are the Spirit of self-giving love, you are the Spirit of reconciliation, you are the Spirit that binds us in one, you come to us from the smitten rock of Christ. Only if you pour anew from within my heart will this Good Friday be good for me – and for those whom I have the power to touch while I live. Because only by a fresh drinking-in of your power will I really grasp the solidarity of all in him, and begin to play my part once more of pouring out his compassion over the needy, the desperate, the separated, the hardened, the hopeless, the unforgiven, all those living lives of quiet desperation … (Martin L. Smith: A Season for the Spirit. Seabury Classics, 2004.)

As a cradle Episcopalian, the concept of “taking up the cross” is foreign to the Christian culture in which I was brought up. Our rituals, both in and outside the context of formal worship, our overly-dramatic sectarian politics, our monumental buildings and the sense of entitlement we feel as “God’s elect”, separates us from the crucifixion much more profoundly than the passing of centuries.

Popular culture focuses on the grand drama of that day 2000 years ago. The beatings, the humiliating walk through the crowds, the cruel nailing of hands and feet, the torn earth and the dying God who would be man. Indeed, Hollywood would have us look for good and evil in its clear separation and cheer on the “winner” as he “triumphs over evil”. In a sort of 2000-year-old reality show, we view this event through the filter of “only the strong can survive”.

It’s not hard to see, then, why we miss the central message of this supreme act of love. Christ’s journey though the wilderness of pain, degradation and sorrow melds with journeys taken by so many others – all of us – repeated over and over as we play out our lives. And it is in those journeys that we find ourselves becoming closer to the Christ that climbed onto the cross. As we come face-to-face with His reality, we know we cannot continue as we were, self-absorbed and inwardly-focused.

Ultimately, Christ invites us to join him on the cross. From that vantage point we see the full sacrifice asked of us: to abandon who we were and to become vessels of love and servanthood made real for us by His gracious example and Sacred Heart.

The beast needed to feed.

It paused on the dust-strewn step, uncertain about the day’s course. Finding the nourishment that would sate its unyielding hunger would take up most of the day.

It was used to it.

Its weather vane head swiveled trying to catch the right breeze out of some unheralded direction. The dark un-nameable beast languished in this moment of uncertainty waiting for the Call that would give it purpose and direction.

Scattered by the frigid wind, a lone leaf tumbled lazily beneath the beast’s feet. Its black forefoot captured the rolling bit of decayed matter, crushing it to dust.

It was ready now.

It stretched its sleek back preparing muscles for their upcoming duties and moved out through the dust. Tourmaline eyes pierced the gloom finding sense in shadowed vagueness.

The scent of the prey filled its flared nostrils and its paws moved swiftly with newly-realized purpose. Saliva dripped through its parted jaws in anticipation of the kill.

***

He was there in the mists, wandering with little purpose, lost in a wilderness of his own making. His thoughts were out of concert with the place, adrift in the shadows of his own shortcomings. Nevertheless, he continued along the path of his own creation, looking for the Way without understanding it.

He paused to rest. Beneath the barren limbs of an old cypress he closed his eyes in remembrance.

No images came. In their place, just on the edge of his peripheral vision, stole the promises of a future of reward and thanksgiving. He tried to center on these wisps of hopefulness but they disappeared with the effort. Fairy-like, they hovered in the lee of his consciousness, protected from his doubts and misgivings.

Across the clearing, hidden in a stand of scrub oak, ensconced in a head blacker than night, two fiery gems gleamed in patient stillness.

It would know when it was time.

They come to me in my dreams.

Mostly they play roles long known
And soothing in their familiarity,
The nocturnal musings transporting me
To days of finding Self amid
The complexity of growth.

I wake with their scent fresh in nostrils open
To the vista of memories playing through my
Slumber-soaked consciousness.
I know then that I miss them more
Than I will allow myself to remember.

Seventeen years have passed
Since last we spoke of life and family.
Her footprint remains on our lives in her
Wit, faith and courage. She gave him a
Home and us a model for living with God.

Three years now since he graced our lives
With wisdom and an air of competency
That endeared him to his compatriots .
He loved us but found it difficult to ask for himself:
“I don’t want to bother you.” He never did.

They have become an ethereal anchor for a
Rootless life spent in unfamiliar neighborhoods.
Their un-corporeal presence enriching life
In moments of uncertainty and certitude,
Levity and despondency.

They rest now in the silence of lasting Peace,
Rooted in the faith that was their lifelong anchor.
Our melded souls resonate through threads of
Connection made immutable by love and the
Presence of the Spirit which binds us all.

Sitting, staring at the street,
The wilderness a vague memory,
The struggles ancient history,
The coldness no longer chilling bones.

All remembrances have faded in the detritus of past life,
Sorted with the dusty books piled in the unfamiliar attic.
Relevancy escapes as constructs reform,
Making a new life from the old, the same yet so deeply different.

The tree stands in the window. I gaze through the verdant barrier
Finding the tailings of my replenished spirit scattered along the
Leaf-strewn paths, beckoning me to remain
Where once I only wanted to escape in fear.

He has brought me here.
Now I must set myself to becoming a
Reflection of His Grace,
Breathing the balm of His healing Spirit.

Today we witnessed the rebirth of a church through the consecration of its spaces for worship.

I am not a great believer in building monuments to God and am fascinated by the great Gothic cathedrals only for the stories they carry inside their stone walls. But there was something new there today in that place that transcended the earth-bound lives we lead and bonded us all through the Spirit. God has led this congregation to this place. May He guide us to use this building as a springboard for significant ministry in this afflicted city.

Bring us, O Lord God, at our last awakening
into the house and gate of heaven,
to enter into that gate and dwell in that house,
where there shall be no darkness nor dazzling, but one equal light;
no noise nor silence, but one equal music;
no fears nor hopes, but one equal possession;
no ends nor beginnings, but one equal eternity;
in the habitations of thy glory and dominion,
world without end.

after John Donne (1571-1631)

Celebrating the advent of the 59th year of
Life given by the gracefulness of His spirit and
Thriving through the clarity of His Love,

He stands in gratitude for all the souls whose
Gracious concern has wrapped
Him in a cocoon of love and healing.

Life renewed, family strengthened,
Colleagues made, friends healed,

Sons finding faith in new horizons,
Changes realized with joy,
He settles in with his God.

He walks the walk and through talk talks tall,
Talking straight and telling truth that sees
Through me, with me, in me, for me.

We find that thing to sing, he and I,  
That resonates within;
 
And from that ringing aria he
Discerns the beauty of that
Discarded fragment of self,
Teaching me its marvels.

In that hour, in that room,
A lifetime passes from rupture to the
Rapture of possibility –

Trust is sitting there,
Truth is dependably close.
And the reassuring sentiment,
Finds its way to my heart:

"Be good to yourself."

He sat there bare as the day he was borne from his
Mother’s safe compartmentalized basket of denial,
Into the world of real image and make-believe belief.

He turns East and sees there mists of memory and truth;
Lessons learned, friendships cherished,
Tears shed, laughter happily remembered.

His step forward is sure and proud.

The pearl white onion turns on its axis,
Gleaming in the phosphorescent glow of
The motes of reality streaming around it.

Emitted such noxious fumes that
Tears sprang from those who dared to
Look beneath the layers of the bleached orb.

He walks toward the Light
Searching for warmth to comfort
His naked soul.  

“I need You.”

He looked up at the dying embers of the pyre that was once his life.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember what it had been like being him
But it wouldn’t come, wouldn’t find substance in his memory,
Leaving him to guess what it must have been like.

A light shines in the distance.  The man looks up.
In spite of himself, he moves toward it,
Hope blossoming in singularity of purpose
Like the Night Blooming Cereus.

He stood on the mountain of memories and for the first time in many years 
Washed them away as if they had never meant anything to him. 
As he sent them forever to the trash heap he felt nothing. 
"What a remarkable thing," he recalled later saying to himself. 
"Perhaps yearning for a past that really never was is not such a good thing after all."

The trash man collects his memories with a solemn finality. 
He will, so it seems, refuse to recycle but rather condemn his past life
To decay in the irretrievable darkness of the city dump. 
It's just as well, because if he had a chance to live it again,
He would repeat all of his same mistakes in the same way.