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.