On endings and new beginnings

It occurs to me that, although I have not written much on this blog of late, I should mark the end of my time as a student since, as of May 20, I will be fully graduated and in possession of a Master of Divinity degree. Then I imagine it will be time to move on to a new blog with a new title and, just maybe, with more frequent posts!

In the intervening months since my post-Sandy Hook post, I have been to the UK twice, once on our senior pilgrimage to Canterbury and another time for a class on Bede and Cuthbert that took me to Durham and York. There's something very sacred about sinking ones roots deep into Anglican soil to understand whence this Episcopal Church sprang. There's also something sacred about the kinds of relationships that are forged when spending such intense amounts of time with travelling companions. I have such love and affection for my classmates after three years, and travelling together only solidified that. I am grateful that our Episcopal Church is small enough that I will be crossing paths with all of them in the years to come. This is a great relief as the goodbyes (for now) begin.

One of my favorite things about England.

As the classwork is ended, and I have some time to reflect (granted for only 34 hours at this point), I am pretty much convinced that I learned a lot while at Yale Divinity School. Academically, it could not have been more rigorous, and my formation in my Berkeley Divinity School community served to form me in our Anglican tradition so that I feel prepared to venture out into the world as an ordained person (coming up on June 2). I'm also convinced that most of my learning and formation did not take place in the classroom. No, that happened in morning prayer and Eucharist every morning at St. Luke's Chapel at Berkeley Center. It took place drinking coffee, worshiping with the YDS community in Marquand Chapel, visiting with professors and staff in casual conversation. It came from getting off the hill into the city of  New Haven, finding places to be in relationship, to offer what gifts I have and opening myself to receive abundant gifts in return. It came from unexpected contacts with classmates, revelations about personal or private aspects of their lives All those moments of grace that I neither sought nor expected all served to form me in rich and life-changing ways. Apparently it's never too late to teach an old dog some new tricks, or to be changed and formed by life and experiences and relationships.

Springtime on the Quad. I'll miss this place.

I need to say that none of this would have been possible without the constant love and support of my beloved husband. We have been apart, except on weekends, for almost three years. Much of our summer months have even been spent in different cities and even continents. I don't think I could tell you how we survived it except that we spent a lot of time on the phone, Skype, text, e-mail, and Facebook when we weren't together and, when we were, we tried our best to be fully present to each other. It also helps that he really believes in my call to ordained ministry, and in this his Reformed sensibilities come in handy because he is convinced that if God is calling me, all the gates of hell will not prevail against it. He also loves God and loves the Church and loves me, and those loves influence how he approaches life. I'm one lucky girl.

Together on the trip to Durham.

And if I could, I'd like to put in a plug for his first book, Head Trash: Cleaning Out the Junk that Stands between You and Success. Today is the official release date! I'm so proud.

What's next for me? I don't know yet! I'm returning to South Africa in June to do some research for a book and hoping that, before I leave, I'll know where I'll be hanging my hat when I return. I'm not worried, though. God has a place for me, and I can be patient until that place is made clear. But I can't wait to get started.

Stay tuned!  

Mourning one little girl

Charlotte Helen Bacon, age 6, died on Friday, December 14 at Sandy Hook Elementary School.

"The family will forever remember her beautiful smile, her energy for life, and the unique way she expressed her individuality, usually with the color pink. Charlotte never met an animal she didn’t love and since the age of two wanted to be a veterinarian."

Those of you who know me well will recognize immediately why I am so particularly drawn to this little girl. Pink bike, pink bike helmet, pink backpack, pink scarves and sweaters, pink coffee travel mug, pink lipstick. Believe it or not, I was not this way as a little girl. Heck, the onset of my pink persona is only fairly recent, and I'm not quite sure whence it came or why, but I know that I am now identified by color when people will comment on my dress on the days I don't wear pink. Maybe I've just reached a point in my life at which wearing a color that I like, that is cheerful and more than a little girly for someone who has never been much of a girly-girl suits me just fine.

And the animals. When even my husband wants to come back to life as one of our dogs, you know that animals are a significant part of my life. My daughter, Rachel, is the same way, and I think we would both rather spend our days in the presence of animals than with most people, which is kind of strange for someone going into pastoral ministry. Or maybe not. Animals calm my spirit. Those of the domestic variety count on humans for care and those in the wild point to a natural order of creation that is beyond my imagination. I can watch the birds at my feeder or live webcams of zoo animals for hours. Animals are part of God's created order just as I am, and there's something about this that is both comforting and inspiring.

I never had a chance to meet little Charlotte, but I think I would have enjoyed her company. And now, when I put on pink in the morning or snuggle with my dogs, I will remember this little girl who expressed herself in color.

I read somewhere that, on Friday, Charlotte's mom finally relented and let her wear her new pink holiday dress and white boots to school. I'm glad she did.

Charlotte Helen Bacon, age 6, was buried today.

Sermon for the Third Sunday of Advent

I preached this morning at my former home parish (where I still have deep roots and Tim continues to attend). The response to my sermon was so overwhelming that I thought I would share it here.There were a lot of moist eyes in the congregation, and I admit that I choked up a couple of times as I spoke, but at least I now know that one can weep from the pulpit and survive.

12.16.2012

St. Peter’s in the Great Valley

Zephaniah 3:14-20

Philippians 4:4-7

Luke 3:7-18

This is not the sermon I had planned to preach today. I had a witty, thought-provoking sermon filled with great amounts of Yale Divinity School erudition to share with you. But that was before. That was before a young man with guns slaughtered 20 children with crayons. It was before this one in a long litany of national tragedies where innocents are murdered for no other reason than that, though they had every reason to believe that they were in the right place, they were actually in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was before people I know and love were practically at each other’s throats over gun control or separation of church and state or the absence of God from schools, as grief expressed itself in anger and judgment because to argue over politics or religion is really so much easier than sitting with the questions: why? how?       

So I returned to the readings for today to see if I could come up with something helpful to say on this 3^rd Sunday of Advent, something to say that would let us gathered here feel more deeply God’s presence in our darkness. And what did I find? 

The prophet Zephaniah proclaims:

Rejoice and exult with all your heart,

O daughter Jerusalem!

The LORD has taken away the judgments against you,

he has turned away your enemies.

The apostle Paul exclaims:

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. 

And Luke tells us of John the Baptist:

So, with many other exhortations, he proclaimed the good news to the people.          

Rejoice? Proclaim Good News? Where does one even begin to proclaim Good News in the midst of such grief and loss? When I reread the lectionary for today, I wondered: why can’t I preach on John’s text that says, “Jesus wept,” or Matthew’s, “A cry was heard in Ramah…Rachel weeps for her children?” And then I prayed, a lot. And then I remembered.

The prophet Zephaniah was a contemporary of Jeremiah, and life was not exactly pleasant for them. The northern kingdom of Israel had fallen a century before and they could see on the horizon that Judah was about to undergo the same fate. An invasion from the north threatened to wipe them out, and after a long recitation of woes upon the people, Zephaniah then says what we heard this morning – yes, all these bad things are going to happen, but don’t be afraid. God will not abandon you and will bring you home. So sing aloud and rejoice. God is here, even in this darkness.

And Paul? He was in prison when he wrote his letter to the church in Philippi. In his lifetime, Paul had been beaten, tortured, shipwrecked, and imprisoned, yet he could still write some of the most beautiful words in all of scripture:

 

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 made known to God. 

And what about John the Baptist who did nothing but go around yelling at everyone? Notice, though, that John did not go into Jerusalem to call people names. No, he’s the hairy, smelly dude living in the beat-up Volkswagen bus down by the river. To get yelled at by John the Baptist, you have to go to him!

I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I’d go out of my way to find this guy. Why would anybody?

Well, I think you would have to be pretty desperate, wouldn’t you? When the world feels turned upside down, tragedy strikes an elementary school, and none of it makes any sense. That’s the kind of desperation that might lead us into the wilderness to find someone like John.

It’s the kind of desperation that puts us on our knees and makes us realize that nothing that we have - power or possessions or privilege or prestige – none of it will protect us from sadness and sorrow, from tragedy and failure any more than it will make us happy or carefree or keep our children safe or our marriages together or health strong.

When we’ve hit rock bottom, that’s when we go down to the river to hear crazy John shout at us. But don’t forget: Luke says that it’s Good News. No, it doesn’t sound like good news, this business about throwing the chaff in the unquenchable fire, but what John is announcing is that the Messiah has finally the come. The long-hoped-for savior of Israel. This is why these desperate people have come out here to be insulted and criticized. Messiah. The Anointed One. He will make all things right, but we need to be ready, and in order to be ready, we have to make some changes. And John is going to tell us what we have to do.

            Repent. Repent. Repentance is not about beating ourselves up. It’s about turning around. When nothing makes sense and whatever is going on in our lives and the world around us seems upside down, turn around.  Turn away from our broken selves and turn toward a new way of being. “One who is more powerful than I is coming.” Turn toward that one.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

          Archbishop Desmond Tutu, no stranger to tragedy and suffering, included a litany in his African Prayer Book, part of which says:

When will we ever learn, when will they ever learn?
Oh when will we ever learn that you intended us for Shalom,
for wholeness, for peace,
For fellowship, for togetherness, for brotherhood,
For sisterhood, for family?
When will we ever learn that you created us
As your children
As members of one family
Your family
The human family— Created us for linking arms
To express our common humanity.
God, my Father, I am filled with anguish and puzzlement
Why,oh God, is there so much suffering, such needless suffering
Iam dumbfounded and I am bewildered
And in agony
This is the world
You loved so much that for it
You gave your only begotten Son, our Lord and Saviour Jesus
Christ,to hang
From the cross, done to death
Love nearly overwhelmed by hate
Light nearly extinguished by darkness
Life nearly destroyed by death
But not quite
For love vanquished hate
For life overcame death, there
Light overwhelmed Darkness, there
And we can live with hope

          You may have noticed that we lit a pink candle today. It’s gaudete Sunday – a Latin word that means "rejoice." It comes from the tradition of the introit, or sung prelude, on the 3^rd Sunday of Advent being gaudete in Domino semper – rejoice in the Lord always. There’s that word again. Rejoice.

The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything. Go on. Go down to the river and get yelled at. It may be hard to hear, but our very lives depend on it. Even in the darkness of the past three days, we can turn toward the light that we know is coming.    

And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard our hearts and our minds in Christ Jesus.

Turn around. Our savior draws near.

On politics and grief

Four years ago, late on election eve, my phone rang.

"Hey, Ma. You watchin' this?"

"Yes, I am," I said through a quickly developing lump in my throat.

"I can't believe it's really happening."

"Me either, Seth. Me either."

And then we sat in silence, he in Brooklyn and me in Downingtown, and watched as the newly elected president of the United States and his family walked around a Chicago stage to rock-star-caliber cheering, and, still holding our phones to our ears, we listened to a soaring acceptance speech from a person of color, an attribute which I was not sure I would ever see in my lifetime.

I had intended to write today about the end of a bitter and divisive campaign season and all those people whom I love and admire for whom the election results turned out to be disappointing and even devastating.

I had intended to write today about the promise of last night's acceptance speech which was hopeful and inclusive and even exhortatory - we can all do better, and we can all do better working together rather than pushing others away.

I had intended to write today about the graceful concession speech by Governor Romney, encouraging his supporters to put people before politics and offering his prayers for the re-elected president.

I had intended to write today about my disappointments in this administration over the past four years: drone strikes, Guantanamo, rendition of prisoners, lack of attention to the environment and the Mideast peace process and the structures which keep people in poverty. It's a long list.

I had intended to write today about my hopes that someday health care reform will adequately address the needs of the addicted, depressed, and mentally ill.

And that's when this became about that phone call on a November evening four years ago. Because this year, Seth is not here to pick up the phone and call me to talk politics or sports or theater or music or love or anything else. Because he died by suicide barely three months later.

So today, I'm remembering a mostly-silent phone conversation that  began (as they all did) with

"Hey, Ma."

My South African adventure

I've been in Cape Town for nearly three weeks now, and it's almost time to go home. At dinner tonight, the six of us living in the Burnley Lodge were beginning to feel the approaching separation, having bonded so closely in the intimate sharing and vulnerability we've experienced through the Institute for Healing of Memories (IHOM). It's been our own little United Nations, with England, India, Rwanda, Zambia, Zimbabwe, and the US gathered around the breakfast and dinner table each day. The rest of our workshop group includes South Africa, Zimbabwe, and a South African expat living in the US, and I love them all, but there is a special bond between those of us here at this location. I'm feeling quite melancholy about the very real possibility that I may never see these friends again. We've exchanged Skype addresses and are Facebook friends (at least some of us), but our world is so large and leisure time and money for international travel is not so easy to come by. I suppose I'll have to leave this up to God's good provision.

I would not even know where to begin to describe the experiences of this training in "Healing Individual and Collective Wounds," which includes facilitation training in the Healing of Memories workshops for which IHOM is known. We all experienced one of those workshops, spending three days on Robben Island where Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for 18 of his 28 years imprisonment. My room there was a former cell for common criminals, bars intact on windows and door. In our training, we've had presentations on all manner of trauma from the apartheid era and beyond, including war and unrest in South Africa's neighboring countries. One of our eleven participants is a former political prisoner on Robben Island (serving 11 of 15 years). One lives in one of the townships that surround Cape Town where blacks and coloreds were forcibly relocated under apartheid rule. Some of these townships stretch for as the eye can see, houses of scrap metal and other salvaged materials, electricity self-wired leading to fire hazard conditions, too hot in summer and too cold in winter and always susceptible to flooding. Still another participant survived the Rwandan genocide. There is so much pain and suffering just among our group, yet we have shared so much laughter and joy and music with each other. I've never experienced anything quite like it, and I want to hold onto this place and these people, even though I know that we will all go home, back to our lives, and it won't be like this again.

I am so grateful for what I have learned and experienced, the places I have seen, and, mostly, the people I have met. I have even discovered an inspiration for a book on reconciliation and forgiveness that I have been pondering for many years. That's certainly something I will carry away from here because it may also be the thing that brings me back again! I want to share this place with Tim, show him all that I have seen and introduce him to all of my new friends. This last may not be possible, but I will carry them all with me: Simbarashe, Silishebo, Leena, Violette, Robin, Thandikhaya, Lindsey, Nyasha, Vincent, Merlyn, Fatima, Madoda, Mercy, Alphonse, Mabongi, Patricia, Ian, Bukiwe, Phyllis, and Fr. Michael.

God Bless Africa;
Guard her children;
Guide her leaders
And give her peace, for Jesus Christ's sake.
Amen.
(The Most Rev. Trevor Huddleston)

Summer snapshots

My summer internship at Trinity Wall Street is more than halfway complete. How did that happen? The craziness of living in New York combined with working at a parish with its fingers in multiple pies has been rewarding as well as exhausting. A simple visit to bring communion to a shut-in can require a couple of subway lines plus a few blocks of walking in this searing summer heat. The steady daily cycle of Eucharist at 12:05 daily, Prayers for Peace at 12:30 at St. Paul's Chapel, and the morning and evening offices at 8:15 and 5:15 help to maintain a sort of rhythm that holds the rest of it together for me.

Unlike most Episcopal Churches I know, I could go days here without encountering a single parishioner if I chose to do that (which I don't). The congregation has its small groups (or "vitality groups" as they are known) that provide a constant hum of activity that does not require the presence of ordained clergy or seminarian interns. I do, however, show up from time to time at bible study, yoga for the seniors, or congregational council meetings, just to have interaction, to try to understand what's going on in their lives and in this place. I've also just completed on Sunday a very successful book study of the Presiding Bishop's new book, "Gathering at God's Table: The Meaning of Mission in the Feast of Faith." It contains a series of essays centered on the five marks of Anglican mission, so it lent itself well to a five-part discussion series. 

I was introduced to this book when I was asked to write a review for the Episcopal Digital Network. I was happy to do that, and it gave me the impetus to do a close reading (which I didn't want to let go to waste, hence the book study!). The end result was a bit disappointing, though, because the critical parts of the review were not published. It seems to me that when there are factual errors in a publication, they need to be pointed out so that, perhaps, they can be corrected in any future editions. In an essay on border crossings (page 148), Katharine Jefferts Schori talks about Samaritans, likening them to the mestizos of our day. She describes them as being descended from intermingling of races during the Babylonian occupation. In fact, the Samaritans intermarried with occupying Assyrians more than a century earlier, and, since the Assyrians were also a Semitic people, to call the Samaritans mestizos seemed, at best, a stretch, and, at worst, patently incorrect. Well, that part of the review was left out. There's another place in the book (page 4) where she has Abraham meeting the three angels in Genesis 17. It was actually chapter 18. Maybe if I publish a book someday, that kind of thing will get past my editors, but it will have to get past me first!

I'll be on hiatus from the internship beginning on Friday the 13th, when I head out to Cape Town, South Africa for a three-week training program at the Institute for Healing of Memories. If you want to know more about the history of that organization and its founder, check out Fr. Michael Lapsley's new book, "Redeeming the Past: My Journey from Freedom Fighter to Healer." This is the next step in my exploration of reconciliation ministry in the world. I expect it will be a life-altering experience.

Summertime, and the living ain't so easy...

Can you imagine not having art in elementary school? No finger paints. No glitter. No construction paper projects? I couldn't either until I accompanied a group of staff volunteers from Trinity Wall Street to PS140 on the Lower East Side. This is just one of the schools in Lower Manhattan that Trinity has partnered with under its All Our Children initiative to provide enrichment opportunities in areas the schools are lacking. It was almost the end of the school year, and these young children had not  had art in their classrooms all year beyond what the teacher was able to fit in from time to time between required subjects if, that is, there were any art supplies to be scrounged up. Some of the graphic arts folk from Trinity accompanied the Faith in Action team (of which I am a part) for a morning of marble painting, paper-ornament making, and pipe cleaner fun (for the younger ones). The enthusiasm of the kids was matched by that of the adults as projects came to life, and young faces lit up with delight as the stack of folded paper really did create an ornament or the marbles in the box really did mix the paint on the paper. Things I always took for granted, that all kids know how to use scissors and glue, for instance, were not the case here, and I can't help wondering what the end result will be of the lack of art and creative projects at this age as the children grow older.

My summer internship at Trinity is providing me training in areas of pastoral leadership that I will need once I'm finished with seminary and (God-willing and the bishop and people consenting) I am ordained. Granted, this is not your ordinary, struggling-to-keep-the-lights-on parish as are so many in the Episcopal Church today. But I've discovered that Trinity faces many of the problems every other church faces, just on a much larger scale. It is, though, just a church, and it's filled with people trying to make sense of a world filled with pain and doubt and fear by embracing a Gospel of hope that sends them out into the world to make a difference. Also in my first week, I was privileged to meet this year's Trinity Transformational Fellows, three South African women recognized for their work in HIV/AIDS communities who were provided with a generous grant and sabbatical time over the past year to improve their skills, network with others doing similar work, and to simply rest. This is the kind of financial support of vital ministries that Trinity is uniquely situated to provide, and it is exposure to this kind of ministry and such a wide variety of people that will likely be invaluable to me over the long course of my life in ordained ministry.

Of course, Trinity is also very much engaged with the Occupy Wall Street (OWS) movement which has heated up once again as the hearings for those who trespassed on Trinity property are scheduled for this week. I arrived early this morning to protesters camping in front of the church, and last week, the service was disrupted by a protester shouting in the middle of the Eucharist. In the month I have been here, I've spoken with many of Trinity's clergy and staff about Occupy, and I've become even more convinced that the church was committed to working with the leaders of the movement and still supports the general message that the way financial empires control our economy is unjust and negatively impacts millions of very human lives every day. What I also have learned is that Trinity long ago lost control of the narrative and has been hammered repeatedly with negative publicity over its refusal to allow the movement to camp out in church-owned Duarte Square, even though it had opened its doors to the movement, providing hospitality, meeting space, Internet access and pastoral support from the very beginning. The message that isn't getting out is the good that continues to flow into the surrounding community, in schools and prisons, and around the world in New Orleans and Haiti, Panama and Burundi, as well as areas of conflict in Congo and Sudan. Many people whom I love and respect share the OWS opposition to Trinity Wall Street and no doubt question my presence here. To them I would say, if nothing else, I am getting quite an education!

Two down, one to go!

Today, I finished the last of my exams for this term and submitted the last paper due. Ah, two years of divinity school are behind me! There is not, however, much time to rest on my laurels, because the summer that lies ahead promises to be extraordinarily busy, challenging, and, undoubtedly, exhilarating.

I begin a parish internship on May 14th at Trinity Church, Wall Street in lower Manhattan. It's one of the largest and most well-heeled Episcopal churches in the US, so if I'm going to get on-the-ground church experience over the summer, this will be an ideal place to do it. Many smaller churches slow down considerably in the summer months, and if I am going to gain practical experience, I certainly need to go somewhere that stays at least somewhat busy. The other reason I want to go there is that Trinity has a Faith in Action program that includes local, national and international reconciliation programs, so at least part of my work will be in this area that holds such interest for me. While I don't yet know exactly what I'll be doing, there will be no lack of work to do. I'll be living in a dorm at General Theological Seminary where I have sublet a room from a student there, and on Friday and Saturday, I'll be at home in PA with my poor, hard-working husband!

While I'm looking forward to living in the big city for the summer, I'm a bit hesitant about living in Chelsea, the neighborhood where Seth's studio was located when he was at NYU's Atlantic Studio. I spent a lot of time with him walking these streets and coming to his shows, grazing our way through the Chelsea Market when we got hungry. I don't know. Maybe this is an opportunity to continue to heal, to perhaps to mourn in a new way. I've pretty much avoided New York since he died, so this does present something new for his grieving mom.

As if this did not provide enough for me to work through and on this summer, I am also attending an Excellence in Preaching Conference sponsored by the Episcopal Preaching Foundation. That's at the end of May in Richmond, VA. Then in mid-July, I leave for Capetown, South Africa for a three-week training seminar at the Institute for Healing of Memories. More on these events later.

            ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

With all the busy-ness of school and life since spring break, I haven't had as much time as I might have liked to write about the Holy Land trip. Just about every paper or reflection that I have written for school has included a story or a reference of some kind to what is happening in Israel-Palestine. I follow the news from there, checking at least the headlines in Haaretz daily. It usually makes my blood pressure go up. I am haunted by the stories we heard and the things that we witnessed (beyond even the life-changing visits to the holy sites). I thought I might share some of the stories here, starting with an amazing wife and mother facing challenges peculiar to her time and place:

Dina Nasser is a public health nurse and senior health advisor on infectious diseases to the Palestinian Authority. She is married to an American and has three children, and they have all lived separately for the past four years because her husband has been denied a permit to reside in Jerusalem where she lives and works, and if she moves to Bir Zeit, fifteen miles north of Jerusalem where he lives, she forfeits her right to live in Jerusalem along with the attendant privileges of residency in the city as opposed to residency on the West Bank. The children live with her but attend a co-educational Friends school in Ramallah. A spirited and charming woman (as were all the Palestinian women we met), Mrs. Nasser’s exasperation and frustration with her situation are palpable as she has repeatedly tried to obtain a family reunification permit but has been denied each time. She calls the closing of Jerusalem, which occurred as the Palestinian Authority was established and the Oslo Accords signed in 1993, “silent ethnic cleansing.” The Israeli authorities, she claims, throw around the word “security” in such a way that “even a lawyer can’t challenge them.”

He is not here! He is risen!

The long Lenten fast is over, and I am slowly returning to electronic media and connectivity with the outside world. I must admit that it was somewhat soothing to be so undistracted, and I wonder if that kind of Zen-like calm can continue now that I am not under self-imposed restriction. We shall see. In case you weren't aware, I was active in one venue as the Yale Divinity School Travel Seminar blogger. You can read all about our two weeks in the Holy Land here, including additional posts by Dean Harry Attridge about the history of the land and Director of External Relations, John Lindner, on current geopolitical events in Israel and Palestine. When I have a moment to gather my thoughts, I will include some of my own reflections on the trip and our experience of the conflict there, but for now, suffice it to say that it was an amazing and transformative experience for all of us pilgrims.

And on to Easter. It is the highlight and culmination of all that Christians proclaim - the resurrection of Jesus Christ and the profound implications of that for those who believe. How can we continue to live complacent, self-focused, and self-indulgent lives when God has upended the world order and turned a symbol of tyranny - the cross - into one of liberation? If we confess Christ crucified and raised from the dead, the only appropriate response is to take on that life ourselves, the one in which the human person of Jesus proclaimed Good News to the poor, the imprisoned, the marginalized, and the suffering. We are all brought into the embrace of those arms stretched out on the cross (to paraphrase a good Episcopal prayer), so there is no 'you' and no 'me' but only one community in the body of the risen Christ. Let's think about that the next time we think our actions have no broader implications!

I have to say, also, that Easter is very hard for me. Since Seth died, it's been pretty much a white-knuckle experience, trying to keep myself from tumbling into the abyss of grief. When we sing "Were you there when they laid him in the tomb," I am immediately taken back to standing next to his grave on a cold February day as his casket was prepared to be lowered into the ground. I never understood Mary, the sorrowful mother, quite so well as I have since losing my own son. And when we sing our joyful alleluias on Easter morning, there is such a tinge of sorrow laced within the rejoicing because the one I love so much I still cannot see or hug or hear. So on this Easter Monday, while I can say with my lips that I will be reunited with Seth someday, this mother's heart still grieves.

The Lord is Risen! He is risen, indeed! Alleluia!

A Holy Lent

I invite you, therefore, in the name of the Church, to the
observance of a holy Lent, by self-examination and repentance;
by prayer, fasting, and self-denial; and by reading and
meditating on God's holy Word. (Book of Common Prayer, p. 265)

Ah, yes. Lent. Here we go again, right? Self-denial, dirge-like hymns, unrelenting solemnity. Is that really what this is supposed to be about? Well, no. Not exactly. Granted, from its earliest days, the forty days of Lent (not counting Sundays which are always the Lord's day!) have been a time of prayer and fasting in order to prepare believers for the Passion of our Lord. Catechumens were prepared for Baptism and the body of believers engaged in acts of penitence and piety. These days, faithful folk tend to observe Lent by "giving something up," some perceived vice like alcohol or chocolate (really? chocolate as a vice?). Many reverse that and take on something new like service in the world or contemplative practice, or, for those who like to combine physical well-being and suffering, an intense exercise program.

All of this is fine. Whatever helps people shed some of the ordinariness of life to focus more intently on their interior life is a good thing. I'm not sure all of these would help me prepare for Holy Week, but the prevalence of taking on some Lenten discipline at least indicates that people understand that their lives are too full, perhaps teetering on the edge of control, and some still, small voice is calling them to take a step back.

It is in this spirit that I will be observing a sabbath rest from social media. I am a very frequent user of Facebook and, more recently, Twitter, and am not 'giving them up' because they are a bad thing. In fact, I thoroughly enjoy connecting with friends, sharing articles and items of interest, and keeping up-to-date on the goings-on of friends near and far. No, I am taking this sabbath to free up time for me to observe a Holy Lent, to spend more time in prayer and contemplation without the distraction of status updates. The intent is that by Maundy Thursday six weeks hence, my "status" will be ready to fully enter the great triduum with a full heart and clear conscience.

One other Lenten tradition from the early days of the church is reconciliation of penitents and those estranged from the church. This theme of reconciliation will be much on my mind as Tim and I travel to the Holy Land for two weeks during Lent, over YDS's spring break. This is not just a tourist adventure, although we are both very excited about walking the roads where Jesus walked. Led by the Dean of Yale Divinity School and renowned New Testament scholar, Harry Attridge, this will be a learning experience as well as providing opportunities for interfaith dialogue among leaders of the three major faiths that claim this land as holy. I will be coordinating and writing the blog for this trip, so if you are interested in following this journey, check our website beginning on Ash Wednesday.

To each of you, I wish a rich and peaceful Lent. Until my return to other media, check this blog, the Divinity Travel Seminar blog, and, if you want to reach me, send an e-mail to me at elaine.thomas@yale.edu.

Create in me a clean heart, O God, *
and renew a right spirit within me.

Cast me not away from your presence *
and take not your holy Spirit from me.

Give me the joy of your saving help again *
and sustain me with your bountiful Spirit.

I shall teach your ways to the wicked, *
and sinners shall return to you.

(Psalm 51:11-14)



Super Bowl Sunday? Not so super this year...

True confession: I love football. Actually, just about any sport will do, and yes, I love watching the Super Bowl. I'm not much for parties because I really like to pay attention to the game (and the commercials!), but this year, my heart just isn't in it. I'm in New Haven, and watching with Tim is so much more fun than watching alone. I'm also here with Boudreau who is having another ACL surgery tomorrow. You may recall that, at this time last year, he had the right knee repaired. Now it's his left. This is such a brutal and long recovery, and I just hate to put him through this again.

The really odd thing, though, is that, once again, this is happening around the anniversary of Seth's death. It will be three years on Thursday (February 9th), and in some bizarre kind of way, Bou has needed intense attention at this time for the second year. Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but his is the dog, after all, who would be greeted with a gleeful "Brother!!!" every time Seth walked in the door. So when Boudreau needs extra love and attention, is in pain or recovering, there's a very close connection with Seth in my mind. Poor boy. He's bears an awful lot of emotional freight for me. I've often wondered if he has any sense of Seth's absence. For me, caring for Bou certainly gives me a sense of closeness in remembering my son.  So I'll see Boudreau through this recovery, unable to imagine what I'll do with myself when the time comes that he can't be nursed back to health.

After I drop him off with the surgeon tomorrow, I'll head out to the Berkeley Middler Retreat at Incarnation Center in Ivoryton, CT. I'm so looking forward to some quiet time, and Bou will be in good hands until I pick him up on Wednesday. There are so many emotions swirling around this time of year, it's really quite serendipitous that Reading Week arrives just in time. I can't say that I'll be getting much reading done for school, but I will have time to just be. And that is enough.

Feast of the Epiphany 2012

Epiphany.

ἐπιφάνεια (epiphaneia), Koine Greek epi (preposition) + phanein (infinitive, to appear).

'Tis the season in which Jesus was revealed or manifested as Messiah, the awaited and Anointed one. The Orthodox call it ἡ Θεοφάνεια (Τheophaneia), or God-appearing (theos + phanein). Western Christian churches mark it as the date the Magi came from the East, bringing gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, and it is a season in which God revealed God's self in the person of Jesus the Christ. In the lectionary for the season, we read about Jesus' baptism as the dove descended on him and God named him the Beloved (Matt. 3:13-17, Mark 1:9-11, Luke 3:21-23, John 1:29-33), the first of his signs at the wedding in Cana (John 2:1-11), the calling of Philip and Nathaniel's confession (John 1:43-51), other stories of healings and exorcisms (this year in Mark 1:14-45), and the presentation in the temple (Luke 2:22-40), ending with the Transfiguration (Matthew 17:1-9, Mark 9:2-8, Luke 9:28-36). All of this is to set the stage for all that happens in Jesus' earthly life, pointing toward his death and resurrection.

That's all pretty dramatic for a new year, isn't it? Even though our liturgical year began on the First Sunday of Advent, we secular westerners are more inclined to inaugurate a new calendar year with popping corks, dropping balls in Times Square, and resolutions to improve ourselves by losing weight, quitting bad habits, taking up an exercise routine, and other sorts of self-indulgent pursuits of which 80% fail by January 20. By the liturgical calender, Jesus had already performed all kinds of signs and wonders by then.

I long ago gave up on New Year's resolutions. Why take on another task over which to beat myself up when I, too, fail to fulfill it? However, looking at the season of Epiphany in which we start our new calendar year makes me wonder how I might also be an 'epiphany' of sorts. How do I show forth my love of God and neighbor? How do I manifest the Christ that dwells within me? These are not questions for setting up resolutions but are eternal questions people of faith have asked for centuries. Teresa of Avila wrote, "We shall never learn to know ourselves except by endeavoring to know God; for beholding His greatness, we realize our own littleness; His purity shows us our foulness; and by meditating upon His humility we find how very far we are from being humble."

How does one show forth God? For Teresa, it would be to clothe oneself in humility before God. This, of course, was not original with Teresa, for we find it Paul's letter to the Philippians:

If then there is any encouragement in Christ, any consolation from love, any sharing in the Spirit,  any compassion and sympathy, make my joy complete: be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves.(Phil. 2:1-3).

Humility, huh? I'm tempted to be like the man holding onto a branch for dear life after falling from a cliff, waiting for rescue, when God tells him to let go, and he asks if there's anyone else up there! It isn't my strong suit, this humility, yet it is a constant theme. "Clothe yourselves with humility" it says in Colossians. But wait, there's more!

As God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience. Bear with one another and, if anyone has a complaint against another, forgive each other; just as the Lord^* has forgiven you, so you also must forgive. Above all, clothe yourselves with love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony. And let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in the one body. And be thankful. Let the word of Christ^* dwell in you richly; teach and admonish one another in all wisdom; and with gratitude in your hearts sing psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs to God.^* And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him. (Col. 3:12-17)

Compassion, kindness, humility, meekness and patience? Not my top five attributes, I'm afraid, yet I am to clothe myself with them. It's not about making a resolution to do these things or practice these things. It's about becoming them, wrapping myself in them as a cloak. And giving thanks for all of it. And just how am I supposed to accomplish this? One day at a time. Mindfulness. Prayer. The courage to change the things I can. At least I don't have to do it alone, because "nothing will be impossible with God" (Luke 1:37). And at least I have the singing part down.

For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
~T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"

What an epiphany.

Advent 2011

How time flies. As of today, I am halfway through my divinity school studies and sit here wondering where the time went. Scripture studies, theology, dead languages, history, preaching, pastoral care - it's all mixed up in there together, working on me in ways I may not fully understand for some time to come. But I am very content as I relax here for one last night in our New England 'vacation home' before heading back to PA tomorrow.

I remember how it felt when I was a child and school would let out for Christmas break - unbounded joy and excitement, freedom, anticipation. That's something of what it is now, but there is more depth, more satisfaction, more anticipation. There is a gladness for a break from all the studies and reading mingled with gratitude for the opportunity of engaging in those studies. There is the anticipation of what next semester holds mixed with the longing that is Advent as I await the One who is and is to come. My life seems so pregnant with meaning and expectation for God only knows what.

My last sermon for preaching class was on the Annunciation. I did a first-person account, donning a Mary-blue shawl and speaking in the voice of an elderly Mary, reflecting on her life and her lack of understanding of just what it was the angel was asking of her. She said 'yes' anyway. The point of the sermon was that we are all called to say 'yes' even if we don't really know what it means, trusting in the One that calls. This has been my contemplation this Advent. I don't know what all of this is about, not really, but I have no doubt that my life is exactly where God would have it be. If you're going to be at St. Peter's in the Great Valley on Sunday, you'll get to hear that sermon!

I'll be journeying home tomorrow, looking forward for time to relax, to spend with friends, and preparing for our trip to Sedona, AZ, for Christmas week. Peace, love, and blessing to all of you in the holy Advent.

Chapel on the Green

Commuting home to Pennsylvania most weekends means that I miss a lot of weekend events that I might otherwise attend - concerts, shows, sports events. I don't mind. It's part of the commitment to preserve and tend my marriage during my three years of divinity school education. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, "God did not call me into ministry to sacrifice my marriage." So, for the most part, going home is good.

However, today I attended Chapel on the Green for the first time and realized that this is something I'd like not to miss, at least not every week. Today marked the third anniversary of this ministry on New Haven's Green. That's three years of Eucharist and lunch every Sunday, rain or snow or sleet notwithstanding (except for hurricanes - there was no chapel on that one Sunday). All are welcome to the rather organized chaos of this worship event, even my dogs and me, and there were many from the divinity school and various New Haven churches, but the majority were those who call the Green their home, every day and every night.

Chapel actually begins with a drum line half an hour before 2:00, and we could hear it blocks away. It was a clear signal that there was something happening on the Green. Boudreau and Satchel strolled first through the Occupy tent area then on toward the gathering behind Trinity Church, meeting and greeting folks along the way who flocked to meet these giant beasts! These furry kids of mine are fabulous ministers - they don't seem to notice that most of the people were dressed in shabby, dirty clothes and many had alcohol-breath that could knock me over, but their tails wagged just as hard for these residents of New Haven's outdoors as they did for the clergy who welcomed them to worship.

Understanding that not everyone is enamored of dogs, large ones in particular, we situated ourselves on the outer edge of the gathering worshippers, but visitors continued to come visit, to pet the dogs, comment on them, envy their warm coats, and laugh as their petting was rewarded with tail wags and smiles (yes, my pups do smile). It was sometimes difficult to hear what was being said by the clergy, but there was no missing the Gospel reading of the Beatitudes from the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5:1-11):

When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying:

‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
‘Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
‘Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.
‘Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.
‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
‘Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.
‘Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
‘Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account.

We were surrounded by the poor in spirit, the mourners, the meek, the persecuted, and the reviled. On this observance of All Saints Day (transferred), the Gospel was brought to life right before our eyes. And each of them had a name. Of course, you say, they have names. But here, we knew their names. Everyone receives a name tag, so when we passed the peace, we could do so while naming each person. These were not nameless, faceless, easily ignored homeless people. They were Mike and Rebecca and John. They were all of us, our brothers and sisters.

Except for the distribution of the sacrament when the clergy walked into the crowd to give the broken body and blood to those gathered around, the Prayers of the People may have been the best part. Episcopalians will know that in most of our churches, we use a fairly uniform liturgy read in prayerful tones by an intercessor. Not here. A man who appeared to be a regular attendee was invited forward to read a brief intercession, and he then invited prayers from the people. And the prayers came. And came some more. Prayers for the addicted. Prayers for those who don't know Jesus. Prayers for their children. The prayers poured forth in a gushing stream as all responded to each one, "Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer." These were truly prayers of the people.

On this special anniversary day, the service was followed by a cookout. Donated socks were free for the taking. Flu shots were offered. People from all walks of life were meeting and greeting each other like old friends. This was the Gospel in action.

I hope to attend Chapel on the Green more times in the future. It is a gift to the whole New Haven community and bears witness to the love of Christ for all people. What a blessing, especially today for the kids and me.

Murder on Edwards Street

A week ago yesterday, there was a shooting death about 100 yards down the street from my apartment. I was on my way to South Carolina and only learned of it from and e-mail from the ubiquitous Chief Ronnell Higgins of the Yale Police. There are a lot of murders annually for a city the size of New Haven - this was the 29th - and they hardly pierce the consciousness of those not directly involved in the victim's life or neighborhood.

The thing that makes this murder on Edwards Street so remarkable is that these things don't happen in East Rock, my section of town. It's a neighborhood of wide, tree-lined streets with beautiful old mansions, many of them subdivided into apartments for students of the university. This violent incident apparently spilled over from somewhere else, a gang fight or groups of rivals, whose cars met on this street in this neighborhood, erupting in a fistfight in the street until someone pulled a gun. When the young men realized that one of them had been shot, they jumped in their cars and sped away, leaving a 23-year-old man to die in the street.

That's the part that has been haunting me. He was left face-down in the street. I've searched the papers and Internet for his name but have not been able to find it. I haven't been able to find any additional information that has been released publicly. So I mourn for a nameless young man who, along with some friends, got into a fight with another group of men and ended up shot, lying in the street with no family or friends around to hold onto him or pray over him as the life drained out of him into the asphalt of Edwards Street.

And it happens in neighborhoods throughout this country with alarming regularity, and I stand convicted of reading about it in the paper or hearing it on the news and remarking about how sad or tragic it is, and then I move on. Yet the killing continues, and, except for family and friends, no one seems to notice or care enough to try to change it. Me included. Until it hits my own street, and my heart now aches for a nameless young man whose life was cut short who undoubtedly left behind a grieving mother and father and siblings and friends who wonder what he was doing on Edwards Street in broad daylight on a beautiful fall afternoon.

I think maybe I'll give Ronnell Higgins a call on Monday and ask him the name of this young man. I know that God knows who he was, but I need a name to attach to this tragedy so that I can continue to pray for him by name as well as for all the other nameless ones who die in the war on our streets. Miserere nobis.

(His name was Kashon Douglas. Thanks to my friend, Lisa, for letting me know. Requiescat in pace, Kashon.)

YDS Day of Service

You'd think we'd be all over this at Yale Divinity School, getting out into the community and making ourselves useful to those in need. For those of you not familiar with the divinity school at Yale, we are situated at the top of a hill in the rarefied air that overlooks the rest of the town (literally, when the leaves are off the trees). It's a lovely setting, but it certainly isolates and insulates us from the often-grim reality of life in New Haven. Granted, the study load for a theological education can be daunting, if not often overwhelming. Papers to write, tons of reading to do, classes to attend, discussions to prepare for, Greek or Hebrew grammar to learn - I don't know about everyone else, but I could spend every waking minute of every day doing school work and it still would not be enough time.

The problem with this is that is tends to separate us from the vocation that brought us here in the first place. I can't speak for those getting academic, rather than divinity, degrees, but for those of us heading toward ordained ministry, serving the poor and oppressed is central to our faith. Jesus spent an awful lot of time talking about loving neighbors, and those neighbors are not just the ones living on our block. He told Peter to tend lambs and feed sheep, and he wasn't talking about livestock.

So it should follow, I would think, that those of us preparing for ministry in the church would jump at a ready-made opportunity to volunteer for an afternoon once a semester to go into the community to do some work, visit with some elderly folk, play games with children, whatever our local partner agencies need to have done. And a number of us do. But an even larger number do not. I know that many have unavoidable conflicts, so maybe they participate by supporting us with prayers or by providing some toiletries for the residents of Columbus House, New Haven's largest shelter services provider. I couldn't participate last year, and I understand that the only reason I could this time is because Tim is in the UK so I didn't go home this weekend. I just can't help wondering about all the rest - the ones too busy or overwhelmed or disinterested. What would it take to reach every last one of my fellow students? I wonder.

Happily, I was with a group of five others who painted an apartment at an emergency shelter in the city that had just been vacated by a family with 11 children. I don't know how they all fit, but they did, and the apartment was in need of a fresh coat of paint. We didn't quite finish it, but we made a good dent in the work. The facilities man, Danny, was overjoyed at our work, because it is normally his job to prepare the apartments for new residents. It would have taken him a few days to complete, and he already has the rest of the building in need of his attention. That six of us could accomplish a good chunk of it in four hours was a gift for him, and that, in itself, was quite satisfying even before considering the next family that would need that apartment because they found themselves suddenly homeless. The six of us also benefited simply by the fellowship we shared during the time that we worked together (and enjoyed a pitcher of beer together afterwards as we debriefed!).

Today was a far different experience than my bi-weekly volunteering dates at a temporary shelter for men in recovery from addiction, many of whom have criminal histories. I do employment coaching, mock interviews, résumé preparation, and general cheerleading to encourage the residents as they search for work. It's difficult enough to find a job with a college degree and a good work record, but if you've been in jail and have gaps in your work history, the challenge is huge. However, for each of them that is successful in finding and keeping a job, the easier they make it for the next guy in that situation, so I urge them to see themselves as trailblazers. Anything I can do to help them present themselves in the most compelling light for a potential employer might make it a bit easier for them as they work on their recovery and their housing situation. Do I have time to do this? Not really. Is it worth my time to do it? Without question.

I'm very proud of all of my classmates who came off the hill today to be a part of their New Haven community. It's hard to believe that one of the world's most prestigious universities in one of the wealthiest states in the country is located in one of the poorest cities. Homelessness, poverty, and unemployment plague the most vulnerable residents. My work group discussed the frustration of doing work that simply plugs holes in the dam of seemingly insurmountable obstacles for the residents of this city. Until structural changes are made in the way we address the needs of the poor, all the apartment painting in the world won't provide permanent solutions. But that work is for another day. Today we did the job put before us, and we did it well, reminded anew of our calling and the love we share in Jesus. Thanks be to God.

Luke the Physician

The patron saint of Berkeley Chapel is St. Luke, so tonight, we celebrated our patronal feast with Bishop Abraham Nhial of the Diocese of Aweil in the new nation of South Sudan as celebrant. In recognition of Luke not only as evangelist but as healer, we had healing stations during communion for those who were so inclined to go for healing and anointing. Since Seth died, I have avoided this, knowing how sensitive I am emotionally in contemplating that enormous loss and how difficult it would be for me to ask for healing for something I am not at all sure can be healed. However, tonight, I did go forward to our Associate Dean of Students, The Rev. Julie Kelsey, and told her I would really like for my broken heart to be healed. And she said a beautiful prayer and blessed me and anointed me with oil, and the tears came, as I knew they would.

I returned to my seat and prayed, and the tears stopped. But when I opened my eyes, there was a line of people waiting for healing, and directly in front of me was a woman who battled cancer all last year standing with her teenaged son. And as they waited in line, she was hugging him from behind or they had their hands intertwined, and it was such a beautiful and loving scene. And then my heart felt torn apart once again because I can't hold Seth or hug him or hold his hand or sing with him as this woman was doing. I don't know if the flood of tears that drenched my face had any healing power in them at all, but the warmth of the hand of the woman next to me and the shared tears of the one on the other side of me and the prayers that enveloped me at least let me know that I am loved and not alone. Although no one can know for sure how this death of my beloved son feels to me, that can at least walk with me in my grief, and that is an immeasurable gift.

At the end of our Wednesday Eucharist, our Dean, Joseph Britton, usually makes a slew of announcements or invites them from the congregation. Realizing that the atmosphere in the chapel this evening was charged with emotion and a healing presence, he dismissed with those announcements altogether. It was a remarkable display of sensitivity and grace.

Thank you to all of those who weep with me, who pray for me even when I am not aware of your prayers, and who love me in my sorrow as well as my joy. And thanks to Luke the Physician for being able to work healing in unexpected ways. Even when the heartbreak itself is beyond repair, grace abounds in the love we share in this community of faith. Thanks be to God.

On Thursday, a 29-year-old Yale alum who oversaw the Music in the Schools program jumped to his death from the 4th floor of one of the buildings belonging to the school of music. I immediately went back two years and seven months to the moment I learned that Seth had attempted suicide, not yet knowing that he had succeeded. This young man's parents had to make the same drive from Poughkeepsie to New Haven that Tim and I made from Downingtown to Brooklyn. It was the worst night of my life, as I'm sure it was the worst day for them. And their nightmare has only just begun. At least I have had some time for the grief to be less acute, the memories not all painful, but I remember so well the questioning and the guilt and the regrets. So I wrote a piece for the Yale Daily News and submitted it this afternoon. It may or may not be published, but I felt compelled to write it anyway. It would seem that the new story of my life that has arisen out of the old is to reach out in whatever way I can. For now, that is the best that I can do. May John Miller rest in peace.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I did not know John Miller. Judging by the accounts I’ve read, he was extremely talented and, given the work he did in New Haven schools, I imagine he was also full of life, funny and fun, and self-giving to a fault. My son, Seth Alan Peterson, was like that, too. He was also like John in another way. He too committed suicide, dying at age 24 two years and seven months ago. Finishing up his theater studies at NYU and living in Brooklyn, he had a bright future ahead of him. In the summer of 2008, he was chosen as one of Broadway’s Rising Stars, performing on stage at Broadway’s Town Hall, demonstrating his extraordinary voice and acting talent. Seven months later he was dead.

Suicide brings on a very particular and peculiar kind of grief. The guilt and second-guessing and pure horror that someone could end one’s own life cause excruciating pain for family and friends. I have learned more about this than I care to know in the time since Seth died, and I thought it might be helpful to share some of that hard-earned knowledge.

You could not have prevented it. Even if you think that you could have on that particular occasion, there is no guarantee that it would not have happened some other time. If you are wondering why you didn’t go with John or ask him to come over if he seemed out of sorts, don’t take the blame on yourself. Seth’s roommate was in an adjoining room when he died. Having someone nearby made no difference at all.

If you’re trying to make rational sense of how something like this could happen to someone with such talent and such a bright future, you really can’t think about it rationally because there is no rational explanation. Normal people, those who are not sick in some way, do not kill themselves. Our most basic human instinct is for survival, so to cause one’s own demise subverts that in ways our healthy intellects can’t imagine.

If you’re thinking that John made a choice to end his life, I don’t really buy that. Whatever was tormenting him – depression, mental illness, some event that threw his mental wiring off kilter – that is what killed him. As I said before, it isn’t a rational choice. Suicides are committed by people driven to it by their own distorted mental and emotional reality. It isn’t really a choice.

The best way to come to terms with the death of someone who simply did not wish to live any more is to talk with others who have lived through it. I could not have survived my son’s death without the support of family and friends, my church community, and the care of others who have lost loved ones to suicide. It won’t make the pain go away, but it does help to know that you’re not the only one asking crazy questions and having morbid thoughts and trying to figure out the inexplicable.

I knew that Seth had contemplated suicide. I knew that he already decided how he would carry it out. At the time of his death, however, he was on an upswing, not a danger to himself according to his therapist. So even though he had a plan, the act itself was impulsive. In that moment, I don’t think that any thought of those he would leave behind in broken grief even occurred to him. Nor did my making a pact with him to call me if he reached that point. This is the nasty reality of suicide prevention. People have to be reached before they get to that point of no return. There is help available both here on campus, through your own health care professional, or through organizations such as The National Alliance on Mental Illness or The American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. Raise your awareness. Talk to someone. And know that those worst moments do pass.

When I heard the news of John Miller’s death, I was taken back to the interminable car ride my husband and I made to Brooklyn in the wee hours of the morning, hoping that Seth was still alive up to the moment we received a phone call from a police detective telling us he didn’t make it. John’s parents made a similar car ride from Poughkeepsie. That horror, that unimaginable grief, however, was not the end of the story. There is life after death. While I still don’t fully understand how I am supposed to make some good out of the tragedy of my son’s death, at the least I can bear witness that, even in its worst times, life is good and worth living.

Ruins and High Kirks and Eid lights, oh my!

My time in Coventry is almost at an end, and I've yet to post a single thing about this extraordinary experience. It has been a wonderful adventure, but the work has kept me busier than I expected as I've read through files and archives of all that's happened with reconciliation ministry here at the cathedral as far back as the bombing on 14 November 1940. In the next couple of days, I will try to synthesize what I've learned from my reading as well as interviews with staff to come up with some kind of business plan (or at least a strategic framework) for the Community of the Cross of Nails moving forward.

Here are just a few highlights:

Just days before the bombing during that night in 1940, Provost (Dean) Richard Howard had included as part of his Remembrance Day prayers this bold petition:

Let us pray for our enemies:
Lord of boundless love, who in thine hour of agony
didst pray for those who nailed thee to the Cross,
we beseech thee for our enemies
that thou wouldest turn their hearts and incline them to mercy.
So that when this hour of conflict is passed
they and we may be united in the bonds of Christian love
and work together as friends
the advancement of thy kingdom by the power of thy Son,
Jesus Christ our Lord.

This didn't win him too many friends. However, he followed that with this Christmas message just over one month later:

What we want to tell the world is this:
that with Christ born again in our hearts today,
we are trying, hard as it may be, to banish all thoughts of revenge;
we are bracing ourselves to finish the tremendous job
of saving the world from tyranny and cruelty;
we are going to try to make a kinder, simpler –
a more Christ-Child-like sort of world in the days beyond this strife.

Tradition has it that the day after the destruction, Howard took a piece of charred wood and scrawled on the wall of the apse the words "Father, forgive." Not "forgive them" as Jesus said on the cross, but just "forgive," meaning "forgive all of us." In 1948, the words were carved into that wall as a permanent reminder of our call to forgive as well as to pray for our own forgiveness.

This message is what drew me to this place, a profound and prophetic message of radical reconciliation, acknowledgement of our own sins, that log in our own eye, in our efforts to build a more just world. That is why the Litany of Reconciliation, drafted in 1959, is based on the Seven Deadly Sins - we must recognize our own sinfulness and our own responsibility for the evil that plagues the world before we can hope to be messengers of peace and reconciliation.

All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.

The hatred which divides nation from nation, race from race, class from class,
Father forgive.
The covetous desires of people and nations to possess what is not their own,
Father forgive.
The greed which exploits the work of human hands and lays waste the earth,
Father forgive.
Our envy of the welfare and happiness of others,
Father forgive.
Our indifference to the plight of the imprisoned, the homeless, the refugee,
Father forgive.
The lust which dishonours the bodies of men, women and children,

Father forgive.
The pride which leads us to trust in ourselves and not in God,
Father forgive.

Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.

To gather with a group of faithful pilgrims on a Friday at noon to pray the
litany in the ruins of the cathedral and to celebrate the Eucharist is a
powerful and humbling reminder of all the forces in our world that bend toward
destruction and our calling to proclaim a different message, one of love and
peace, forgiveness and reconciliation. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
For Tim, undoubtedly a highlight of this trip was a weekend "dash to the kirk" as it was put by David Porter, Canon for Reconciliation Ministry at Coventry Cathedral. David is greatly amused at how we Americans will think nothing of hopping into a car and driving for six hours for a weekend excursion. However, we had vowed to get to Scotland on this visit, and to Scotland we went. I know that Tim and I constantly tease each other about our competing Reformed and Anglican traditions, but it was quite moving for me to see how meaningful it was for him to worship in the same church, St. Giles Cathedral, in which John Knox, the founder of Scottish Presbyterianism, served for a dozen or so years. I do fear, however, that Tim's visit to the High Kirk may have further hardened his resolve to remain true to his Presbyterian roots and hence weakened my influence to claim him for the Episcopal Church.

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This past Monday evening, several of the reconciliation team made our way to the largest mosque in Coventry to witness the lighting of the Eid lights. This was something new to me, but, as it was explained, it is something as akin to our lighting our Christmas lights during Advent in preparation for the actual celebration of the Nativity. Eid, the three-day celebration at the end of the month of Ramadan, is not until next week, but the lights are a way of marking the approach of these celebratory and holy days for Muslims. Following the flipping of the switch by the Lord Mayor of Coventry (which was nothing more than symbolic as the real lighting was effected by a representative from the electric company with a screwdriver and an open panel on a light pole!), we were invited into the Muslim Community Resource Center for a wonderful meal to break the day's fast. After a brief presentation, the imam indicated that sunset had arrived, so all the Muslims went downstairs to say their prayers while the rest of us began to eat the food that was set before us. Our friends later returned and eagerly heaped their plates with food, having not eaten since before sunrise that morning. The hospitality we were shown was humbling. I, along with one of the reconciliation interns, was treated as an honored guest as an American. I so enjoyed talking with these new-found friends about my distress at the fear and hatred demonstrated by so many Americans toward Muslims, wishing that everyone of us could sit down and break bread. Reconciliation is about relationship, and there is no more powerful symbol of that than the sharing of a meal. Even Jesus knew that.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I have only a couple of days remaining here which I will spend writing up my findings into some sort of report for David Porter. Whether or not I have anything new and useful to say, I do not know. My promise to him when discussing the possibility of my doing some consulting work here was that I would provide the Community of the Cross of Nails whatever organizational expertise I have to offer in exchange for learning everything I can about what it is that they do here. While I hope that CCN can benefit from my time here, I already know who has received the greatest gift during this fortnight in Coventry.

More adventures in CPE

Not many people in a Clinical Pastoral Education program have the experience that my 5 classmates and I had this past weekend. We were chaplains at Camp Evergreen, a bereavement program of Diakon Hopsice St. John for children age 8 to 16 who have lost a family member or other loved one. Children grieve differently than adults, and it's so very important that they are actually allowed and encouraged to grieve. When Tim's dad died just before his 9th birthday, it was as if his memory was supposed to die, as well - he was not mentioned, his family did not share memories, his mother was in too much pain to help her children through this very necessary process of grieving, and that created a great deal of emotional baggage that Tim had to face as an adult. Not so with these fortunate children attending Camp Evergreen. Every activity is designed to help them both have fun and express their loss in a way that suits their own emotional and developmental level.

Fifteen children attended camp this year, dealing with losses that occurred as recently as June and and long ago as 4 years. Mothers, fathers, grandparents, siblings, cousins - the kids had lost at least one of these, sometimes with the addition of a pet death that they also grieved. This camp allows them to see that they are not alone, they don't stand out among their peers as someone who is odd or different. They can just be themselves and bond with other kids dealing with similar issues. Watching them grow comfortable with one another and make friends was so heartwarming for the adults. In one cabin of girls, they took three mattresses off of the bunks and put them on the floor so that they could all sleep together. How awesome is that?

Of the craft activities in which they participated, the broken pot may have been my favorite. They took a terra cotta pot and wrote emotion words on the inside describing how they felt about their loss, words like "sad" and "lonely" and "guilt" appeared in several. The children then wrapped the pot in newspaper, tapped it with a hammer to break it into large pieces (though some had many small pieces with which to contend), and then glued them back together. This represents how our hearts may be broken in pieces by the death of someone we love, but the pieces do go back together, even though the scars remain. The children then decorated the pots of paints and stickers, and took them home to plant new life into them.

Part of the weekend included a challenge course where the children were encouraged to take a risk, to do as much as one felt one was able to do on a rope course and climbing wall. Some were hesitant to walk the rope with other children and adults acting as spotters, but in the end, everyone (including me!) made it the length of the rope. Their were many team-building and trust-building activities, as well, all designed to be fun, but always with the purpose of healing and wholeness. Of course, this was a very hot late July weekend, so down time in the pool on Saturday afternoon was a refreshing relief for all of us!

Throughout the weekend, I thought of those persons that I know who lost parents as children and so wished they had this kind of opportunity to help them through. I also thought a lot of Seth and my own continuing grief over his death. Though I might use different words or have different methods of dealing with that, the need to put the pieces back together is as real for me as for each one of these children. Trying to create something good out of something so unrelentingly difficult and sad is a challenge for all of us. The resilience of these children was such an inspiration, though. They risked sharing their grief with their peers as well as the adults and received such love and encouragement in return. This is a valuable lesson for me as a grieving mother but also as a future pastor who will be able to use some of what I have learned to help other children who mourn. What a gift!