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.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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.
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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!

More on CPE

Eight deaths in four weeks. That's how many of my hospice patients have died since I started Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) on June 1st. Writing it like that makes me feel like the Chaplain of Death, but it really isn't like that. Being with people facing a terminal diagnosis or impending death is a wonderfully exhausting privilege. There isn't much room to hide at times like that, so I've had some of the most vulnerable and sincere encounters with these people I hardly know simply because they know - and I know - that they don't have much time left.

I was a bit worried when I learned early on that we try to represent our hospice group at all viewings or funerals. Funeral homes are just not my favorite places. However, I must say that the gratitude from family members with whom I have sat and talked through the last days helps the funereal surroundings fade into the background. This is what my ministry this summer is about, and, exhausting as it is, I can feel it working deep within me and beginning to suffuse every aspect of my life.

I preached at St. Peter's in the Great Valley this morning. In fact, I played the organ and preached, which was an interesting experience! I had written a sermon reflecting on my hospice work using the lectionary for the 3rd Sunday after Pentecost, but I found out yesterday that the readings for Independence Day had been transferred from Monday to today, so back to the drawing board I went to come up with another few things to say. So I have this hospice sermon kind of sitting there, waiting for these readings to come around again in three years. I think I'll just share it here, and if you hear me preach it some day, I hope you will have forgotten that you already read it.

Hospice

I thought I knew what hospice was. In the past week, I have learned just how little I do know. Hospice is not just for people who are dying. Can you believe that? Indeed, many who enter into hospice services are facing their final days of life, but many, upon receiving hospice care, are stabilized and actually removed from service. They can re-enter hospice later, if needed, though not all do. Hospice is as much about providing end-of-life care to caregivers and family members as it is to offer comfort and palliative care to a patient. I've come to believe that the real beauty of hospice is to free families and individuals to live full lives for whatever time they have remaining, able to be fully present to one another, to share memories, to say "I love you," and also "goodbye."

For the summer, I am serving as chaplain for Diakon Hospice St. John (DHSJ), part of Diakon Lutheran Social Ministries. This is part of my Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE), a significant period of training for those going into any type of pastoral care ministry. DHSJ has an office site, so its personnel travel to various care facilities and patient homes. I've spent a lot of time on the road, which is, in a way, a blessing, because it gives me time to process the encounters I've had before moving on to the next one. Our patients range from those with good mental acuity to those who are completely non-responsive. Some have dementia or Alzheimer's, but many simply have bodies that have run their course while their minds remain clear.

I am still learning how to prepare for my visits as the hospice chaplain. Sometimes, the patient has a strong relationship with a congregation and receives pastoral visits from his or her own clergy. In those cases, my visits are a supplement, providing a ministry of presence between visits from the patient's pastor. My mentor, the DHSJ chaplain, has been such a wonderful model for me! She's known as "the singing chaplain" and loves to sing to patients, especially old hymns that still resonate even in the most clouded memory. I have found this to be a great comfort to me, particularly with those patients who cannot respond to me or those who are confused and unable to articulate coherently. I will often get a response - a smile or a touch - where there was none before. The Lord's Prayer and the 23rd Psalm can generate a similar response. It never ceases to amaze me how an aging mind can recall events and songs and phrases from so long ago when there is no memory of even five minutes before.

I can't even begin yet to fully process this hospice work. Sometimes I struggle to know just what to do or say, especially when the patient is trying so hard to communicate but just can't. Even a touch can produce fear or obvious discomfort in the patient, even if its intent is to indicate care and concern. All I can do, mostly, is pray...a lot. I know that God is already present; I do not bring God there. This is very important for me to remember. This is God's work. I stand on holy ground with each encounter. Please keep me in your prayers as I engage in this daunting responsibility.

Home, and other things

I think that someone could drop me in the middle of North Carolina, blindfolded, from an airplane (with a parachute, I think), and I would know where I was when I landed. There's something about my home state with its fragrance of dirt and tobacco and pine trees that has a familiarity steeped into my bones. Even though I've lived in Pennsylvania more than twice as long as I did in NC, I don't have that same feeling about this Keystone state, much as I love living here. And for those of you who don't know this state, it's mostly rich farmland anchored by a couple of big cities on either end and a few more moderate-sized ones scattered about. But for me, it doesn't have the same feel or taste of smell as the state in which I grew up, which is a great mystery to me.

While Pennsylvania is my home, it's not really my "home." I'm not talking about some 'home over Jordan' here, either. My home is that place where I belong, and for me, that's wherever Tim and I have put down our roots with the dogs and the cat to round out our family in this place at this time. On my back and forth trips to New Haven, I'll often say that I'm going home when headed north on the NJ Turnpike, but that's not really so. It's just a temporary place to shelter me while I study at YDS, and yet, when Tim is there with me, it is home. The weekend before finals, not only was Tim there but the pups were, too, and it was heavenly, if a bit crowded!

I suppose that all these thoughts of home have bubbled to the surface in the past week or so as I've begun to resettle into my PA home with Tim while also making a trip down to NC to see my 81-year-old mother and my sister and nieces and brother-in-law. There's always a bit of nostalgia in being all grown up amongst one's family. The rules have changed as have the roles, and it just doesn't feel like home anymore. Week after next, I'll be going out to California to see my daughter, Rachel, and even though she and I once called the same place home, being with her where she is won't be home for me, either. It's all very strange.

Now that I am home with Tim and the furry kids with no papers waiting for me and no particular reading to do, I can truly revel in this home that we have created for ourselves, and I realize that it's not so much this house as it is a state of mind. Whoever said 'home is where the heart is' sure knew what s/he was talking about.

Day of Atonement

A week or so ago, Tim and I were talking about Jewish customs and how we Christians are the poorer for not having maintained some of those observances that Jesus would certainly have known. We do not have Rosh Hashanah, which is not known by this name in the bible but is called the Day of Remembrance (Yom Ha Zikkaron). We call it the Jewish New Year, but it is a far cry from the drunken revelry of our own secular new year celebration. It is a solemn occasion of introspection, of looking back over the year, and vowing to do better in the year to come. Even the most non-observant Jews can be found in the synagogue for this first of the High Holy Days, much as many non-practicing Christians can be found in church on Christmas and Easter. We also do not have a celebration of thanksgiving to God like Sukkot. Our own Thanksgiving is a National Holiday, not a specifically religious one, and it's rare to find many gathered in church on this day, much less the seven days of Sukkot, constructing tents and leaving them up for those seven days to remember God's blessings in leading the Israelites through the wilderness where they dwelt in tents, or booths. Nor do we initiate our children on the precipice of adulthood with a Bar or Bat Mitvah, recognizing their burgeoning maturity with a sacred rite.

Most importantly, I think, is that we don't have a Day of Atonement, Yom Kippur. After Rosh Hashanah, the next ten days are known as the Days of Awe (Yamim Noraim), as the introspection of the New Year continues so that one is ready on the Day of Atonement to acknowledge one's sins and failings to God. During those ten days, the faithful make amends to those with whom they may have a dispute, they mend fences, they seriously prepare to live a life reconciled with God. Yom Kippur is a day of prayer and fasting, refraining from work, and attending services. It is a beautiful tradition.

Now, some of you may say that we do have a new year when the liturgical year begins with the first Sunday in Advent. And you may say that Thanksgiving is, for you, a sacred holiday. And you might even claim that we don't need a day to atone because we say at prayer of confession and are absolved by a priest every Sunday. I would say that none of these bears the same sacred weight as the Jewish observances where the people gather as a whole community to engage in an ancient ritual as an expression of faith, of our human fragility, and our complete dependence on God.

I think that today - Good Friday - may be the closest we come to a Day of Atonement. I'm not talking about some doctrine about Jesus' atonement for our sins on the cross but about our coming to the foot of that cross and confessing the responsibility we bear for crucifying Jesus again and again in our own lives. What's that, you say? You've never crucified Jesus? We live in a country that would rather engage in combat than reconciliation. In this, the wealthiest and most powerful country in the history of the world, almost 2 million people have no place to call home. We rank 33rd in the world in infant mortality rates (behind such superpowers as Iceland, Slovenia, and Cuba) despite some of the most expensive health care in the world. We demonize anyone different from ourselves - gays and lesbians, Muslims, racial and ethnic minorities - and continue to perpetuate an inequality in wealth distribution that permits the top 1% to control more than 40% of the nation's wealth. We have allowed the criminal justice system and prisons to become profit-making institutions where the poor and minorities are overrepresented and black males, in particular, are far more likely to receive prison sentences than white males. We put up with bullying (and I'm not just talking about among children) and hateful speech as if our words and attitudes don't matter.

Jesus did not die on a cross so that we could go about our lives as if only we mattered. So would it be unreasonable to suggest that on this day when we remember how Jesus died that we should be the ones looking within ourselves for all the ways we continue to dishonor and reject God's love for us? God did not become one of us and live and die as one of us so that we could put ourselves first in all things, so that we could have while others have not, so that we could throw our own power and privilege around to get our own way. There is only one way and that is the way of the cross.

So as we spend these next days pondering how Jesus lay in a tomb for no other reason than that he threatened the world order of the Roman empire and the Jewish temple system, let us consider our own role in perpetuating a world order and political and social system that dishonors and disinherits the very ones Jesus commanded us to love and serve.

Atonement? I think it's our turn.

Hope springs eternal

Tim loves to say that the two most glorious phrases in all of human language are "He is Risen!" and "Play ball!" He is particularly happy when Opening Day and Easter occur on the same day, as sometimes happens, and he gets to hear both. Coming from a lifelong fan of the Cleveland Indians, this is pretty remarkable. Except for the great years of 1994-1997, there hasn't been much to cheer about in his lifetime, and even in those years in which the Tribe went to the World Series twice, losing to the stinkin' Braves in '95 and the stinkin' Marlins in '97 (when they were actually 1 out and 1 strike away from winning), there was an insidious undercurrent in the blood of a Clevelander that was convinced that it wouldn't actually come to pass, the championship would continue to be elusive. And so it has been.

Many writers have gotten all theological about the ties between faith and baseball, the Trinitarian nature of 3 strikes and you're out, 3 outs to an inning, 3 bases to home plate, and always aiming to go "home." For me, though, it's more about the time of year in which the season begins, the long season of 162 games, ending in the Fall Classic, now more often ending in November than October, but such is the nature of sports these days. Who'd ever have thought that hockey would end in June, the NBA season almost to July, and the Super Bowl would be played in February? Good grief. But I digress...

Opening Day of the baseball season is a springtime ritual. It happens when the crocuses and daffodils are just hitting their stride, the fruit trees are about to blossom, and the grass is suddenly green again instead of white with snow (unless you're actually in Cleveland, where it has snowed on many an Opening Day). The air is ripe with hope and new life, for which there is no greater metaphor than Easter morning. On Good Friday, when it seemed that all was lost, everyone went home and locked their doors and stewed in whatever misery most beset them, whether grief or guilt or shame. The women ventured out to perform their duties to cleanse and anoint the body, but even they were shrouded in tears and sorrow. In Mark's version of the story, a young man dressed in white tells them that Jesus has been raised, he's not there, and to go and tell Peter and the rest of the disciples that Jesus has gone ahead to Galilee to meet him there. The original ending of Mark in verse 8 of chapter 16 says:

So they went out and fled from the tomb,

for terror and amazement had seized them;

and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.

Can you imagine if that really had been the end? What if they had told no one and that had been the end of it? Well, we won't know in this case, because some later editor tacked on a neat ending to Mark's gospel, having Jesus appear to Mary Magdalene and a couple of disciples and then to the rest of the eleven before his ascension. The divine will always find a way to be revealed, even if we in our fear and disbelieving do nothing to help it along.

Forty days later by liturgical accounting comes the ascension of Jesus, and in fifty days the Holy Spirit blew through the people on the day of Pentecost, unleashing its power in the creation of what we call "church." And we, as we begin our march through the season following Pentecost and its stories of how the church spread and grew, are accompanied by the steady and assuring cracks of bats on balls and thwunks of fastballs into catchers' mitts. There's a rhythm to these joined seasons that brings up memories of hot summer days in the South sipping tea so sweet your spoon could stand up in it and lying on the cool grass listening to the frogs chirping by the creek and swatting away the mosquitoes in search of a meal. With each Opening Day comes the hope that this could be the year that your team will still be playing in October, even if the last season ended in yet another disappointment.

Faith is like that, too. Falling and getting up and falling again, learning to rely on a grace we cannot deserve but that is always there, lifting us up when we fall, comforting us when discouraged or sorrowful, as the birthday prayer says. We're still in Lent as this year's baseball season gets underway, and spring is a little late in arriving in my neck of the woods. But I know it's there, because I'm hearing the chatter of baseball players and cheers of crowds, and even Indians fans are excited again, hoping that maybe there won't be 100 losses, maybe this team will surprise us after all.

Baseball and resurrection, life and death, falling down and getting up again. Hope does spring eternal.