During Lent, St. Gregory's members are presenting their meditations on the season. You can read these reflections here - and share them with your friends.
Fatherhood Series by Matthew Priest
5th Sunday in Lent Readings
The readings for this Sunday are hard. They're not difficult to comprehend. They're hard because they dwell on the imperfection in our relationships. They dwell on sin. For me, they stir up mistakes, failures, and bad actions from my past. Lest I let myself off easy, Psalm 51 says, "Indeed, I have been wicked from my birth, a sinner from my mother's womb." These shortcomings can become overwhelming, overshadowing the affection and forgiveness that are at the heart of longstanding relationships. But the father-like relationship variously described in these passages gives me hope and even comfort.
Sometime during the lead-up to Christmas 2016, I saw a modern icon of Joseph with Jesus as a small child. Unlike many depictions, this one demonstrated realistic affection between the two, not just a god-ordained duty like we often see shown in such images. Remembering that icon, early in 2017 I made these sketches, loosely based on the life of Jesus. I imagined Joseph calming a fussy baby Jesus, awed by and besotted with this tiny human who is entirely dependent upon him and his bride, Mary. I imagined young Jesus not only learning carpentry from Joseph, but playing with him, learning morality and culture, learning how to be a good person. Perhaps even more than when Jesus was an infant, Joseph worries about keeping him safe and doing right by him. I imagined Joseph caring for Jesus when he was sick, wishing there were anything he could do to make him well. There's nothing the son could have done that Joseph would not forgive. A rose-colored portrayal of the father-child relationship? Maybe. I don't have children of my own, so I can only surmise. But it feels like the relationship to which these readings call us.
The readings for this Sunday are hard. They're not difficult to comprehend. They're hard because they dwell on the imperfection in our relationships. They dwell on sin. For me, they stir up mistakes, failures, and bad actions from my past. Lest I let myself off easy, Psalm 51 says, "Indeed, I have been wicked from my birth, a sinner from my mother's womb." These shortcomings can become overwhelming, overshadowing the affection and forgiveness that are at the heart of longstanding relationships. But the father-like relationship variously described in these passages gives me hope and even comfort.
Sometime during the lead-up to Christmas 2016, I saw a modern icon of Joseph with Jesus as a small child. Unlike many depictions, this one demonstrated realistic affection between the two, not just a god-ordained duty like we often see shown in such images. Remembering that icon, early in 2017 I made these sketches, loosely based on the life of Jesus. I imagined Joseph calming a fussy baby Jesus, awed by and besotted with this tiny human who is entirely dependent upon him and his bride, Mary. I imagined young Jesus not only learning carpentry from Joseph, but playing with him, learning morality and culture, learning how to be a good person. Perhaps even more than when Jesus was an infant, Joseph worries about keeping him safe and doing right by him. I imagined Joseph caring for Jesus when he was sick, wishing there were anything he could do to make him well. There's nothing the son could have done that Joseph would not forgive. A rose-colored portrayal of the father-child relationship? Maybe. I don't have children of my own, so I can only surmise. But it feels like the relationship to which these readings call us.
... and such small portions by Thomas Lukens
4th Sunday in Lent Readings
For almost two years now I have volunteered in the Friendly Visitor program of Openhouse. Most Saturday mornings I visit an older man in his apartment. He suffers from Parkinson's disease, but he still walks pretty well and manages to get out every day. He has a rent-controlled apartment and a sufficient income to support his needs and wants. We mostly talk about events in our own lives and the larger world around us— a recurring theme is life in San Francisco then and now. Once, a few month ago, he said, "You know one thing I hate?" A comic mood came upon me. I grinned at him and as I said "Tell me", he grinned back. It was something about restaurant service (or maybe cable cars, does it matter?) that we could laugh about and bond over. I call it luxurious complaining.
I also find something comical in the story from Numbers (24:1-9). First, "there is no food ... and we detest this miserable food" then later (paraphrasing) "Ahhh! Snakes! We're sorry!" But bad food provoking a bad mood is a common complaint of the well-fed. Here's Jane Austen’s character Mary Crawford in Mansfield Park:
And though Dr. Grant is most kind and obliging to me, and though he is really a gentleman, and, I dare say, a good scholar and clever, and often preaches good sermons, and is very respectable, I see him to be an indolent, selfish bon vivant, who must have his palate consulted in everything; who will not stir a finger for the convenience of any one; and who, moreover, if the cook makes a blunder, is out of humour with his excellent wife. To own the truth, Henry and I were partly driven out this very evening by a disappointment about a green goose, which he could not get the better of. My poor sister was forced to stay and bear it.
Within the last year my 'venomous anger' over an unfortunate choice of restaurant that I was not consulted on when traveling with dear friends was a cause of tears and sorrow. All this is very far from luxurious complaining. "Children of wrath" is the evocative phrase in the reading from Ephesians. In that state I am a clogged conduit for the movement of God’s grace in the world.
In John's gospel Jesus is very urgent on the subject of belief: “that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life”. Back in 2005 I spent a few months in Parramatta outside Sydney, Australia for work. I struck up an acquaintance with a clergyman whom I sometimes passed in the square outside his church and told him about St. Gregory's and we occasionally chatted on church topics. On one occasion he introduced me to another person with the clarification that I was 'a believer'. This rubbed me the wrong way. I know that in the common view, belief is considered the defining trait of Christian faith. I don't believe in belief. I've held to so many erroneous beliefs in my life and nowadays I regard them as a barrier to experience.
To me faith is a path (“how you bet your life” as our esteemed Rev. Fabian puts it) and salvation a process. If it's a process that leads to a decision of (as the writer of Ephesians puts it), “you have been saved”, then I ain't got it.* At St. Gregory's we teach, "God speaks to us through our experience." That's a belief I can sign on to. But if you must ask me whether God exists, I don’t recognize an intelligible question .Call me an atheist if you like, but please not an agnostic. And I do consider it the action of grace when I notice God's movement in my life.
It's not hard to imagine that the food was really bad in the story of the snakes— stuff that we would hardly recognize as food. But what most signals privation is when the people beg Moses, 'pray to the LORD to take away the serpents from us'. They felt they could not pray themselves but needed Moses to be their broker.
The psalmist offers a retrospective benediction on them that comprises us in its dispensation:
Let them give thanks to the LORD for his mercy * and the wonders he does for his children.
Let them offer a sacrifice of thanksgiving * and tell of his acts with shouts of joy.
* The Oxford Study Bible offers this helpful note: 'the view here ... that salvation is already accomplished diverges from normal Pauline thought in which salvation belongs to the future (Rom. 5.10) or is at most only in process (see 1 Cor. 1.18)'.
For almost two years now I have volunteered in the Friendly Visitor program of Openhouse. Most Saturday mornings I visit an older man in his apartment. He suffers from Parkinson's disease, but he still walks pretty well and manages to get out every day. He has a rent-controlled apartment and a sufficient income to support his needs and wants. We mostly talk about events in our own lives and the larger world around us— a recurring theme is life in San Francisco then and now. Once, a few month ago, he said, "You know one thing I hate?" A comic mood came upon me. I grinned at him and as I said "Tell me", he grinned back. It was something about restaurant service (or maybe cable cars, does it matter?) that we could laugh about and bond over. I call it luxurious complaining.
I also find something comical in the story from Numbers (24:1-9). First, "there is no food ... and we detest this miserable food" then later (paraphrasing) "Ahhh! Snakes! We're sorry!" But bad food provoking a bad mood is a common complaint of the well-fed. Here's Jane Austen’s character Mary Crawford in Mansfield Park:
And though Dr. Grant is most kind and obliging to me, and though he is really a gentleman, and, I dare say, a good scholar and clever, and often preaches good sermons, and is very respectable, I see him to be an indolent, selfish bon vivant, who must have his palate consulted in everything; who will not stir a finger for the convenience of any one; and who, moreover, if the cook makes a blunder, is out of humour with his excellent wife. To own the truth, Henry and I were partly driven out this very evening by a disappointment about a green goose, which he could not get the better of. My poor sister was forced to stay and bear it.
Within the last year my 'venomous anger' over an unfortunate choice of restaurant that I was not consulted on when traveling with dear friends was a cause of tears and sorrow. All this is very far from luxurious complaining. "Children of wrath" is the evocative phrase in the reading from Ephesians. In that state I am a clogged conduit for the movement of God’s grace in the world.
In John's gospel Jesus is very urgent on the subject of belief: “that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life”. Back in 2005 I spent a few months in Parramatta outside Sydney, Australia for work. I struck up an acquaintance with a clergyman whom I sometimes passed in the square outside his church and told him about St. Gregory's and we occasionally chatted on church topics. On one occasion he introduced me to another person with the clarification that I was 'a believer'. This rubbed me the wrong way. I know that in the common view, belief is considered the defining trait of Christian faith. I don't believe in belief. I've held to so many erroneous beliefs in my life and nowadays I regard them as a barrier to experience.
To me faith is a path (“how you bet your life” as our esteemed Rev. Fabian puts it) and salvation a process. If it's a process that leads to a decision of (as the writer of Ephesians puts it), “you have been saved”, then I ain't got it.* At St. Gregory's we teach, "God speaks to us through our experience." That's a belief I can sign on to. But if you must ask me whether God exists, I don’t recognize an intelligible question .Call me an atheist if you like, but please not an agnostic. And I do consider it the action of grace when I notice God's movement in my life.
It's not hard to imagine that the food was really bad in the story of the snakes— stuff that we would hardly recognize as food. But what most signals privation is when the people beg Moses, 'pray to the LORD to take away the serpents from us'. They felt they could not pray themselves but needed Moses to be their broker.
The psalmist offers a retrospective benediction on them that comprises us in its dispensation:
Let them give thanks to the LORD for his mercy * and the wonders he does for his children.
Let them offer a sacrifice of thanksgiving * and tell of his acts with shouts of joy.
* The Oxford Study Bible offers this helpful note: 'the view here ... that salvation is already accomplished diverges from normal Pauline thought in which salvation belongs to the future (Rom. 5.10) or is at most only in process (see 1 Cor. 1.18)'.
The Western Wall by Richard Anderson
The Temple Mount, known to Muslims as the Haram al-Sharif (the Noble Sanctuary), has been venerated as a holy site by Jews, Christians and Muslims for thousands of years. The Western Wall was built by King Herod in 20 BCE and is part of a retaining wall that once enclosed and supported the Second Temple. In 70 AD the Romans destroyed Jerusalem and its Temple. All that remains is the Western Wall.
In 2008, Jessica and I made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. I made this photograph on November 10. The spiritual energy of this site is palpable. The huge lower stones, the the ashlars, are from the time of Herod. They are carved with such precision that they rest perfectly against and on top of each other without mortar. To touch them is to be connected spiritually to the time of Jesus.
Keeping in mind the upcoming lectionary readings for this Sunday, prayerfully reflect or meditate on this image. What emerges for you? In what ways might God be moving in your life or speaking to you?
In 2008, Jessica and I made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. I made this photograph on November 10. The spiritual energy of this site is palpable. The huge lower stones, the the ashlars, are from the time of Herod. They are carved with such precision that they rest perfectly against and on top of each other without mortar. To touch them is to be connected spiritually to the time of Jesus.
Keeping in mind the upcoming lectionary readings for this Sunday, prayerfully reflect or meditate on this image. What emerges for you? In what ways might God be moving in your life or speaking to you?
Christa by Terry Johnson
I’ve been practicing visio divina with the image of this sculpture, called “Christa,” a striking female depiction of Christ on the cross. It is a bronze sculpture weighing 250 pounds, and measuring 4 x 5 ft. mounted on a Lucite cross. Shown first in London in 1975, it is said to be the first representation of a female Christ. It has been exhibited in galleries and churches in Rome, Toronto, New York, Washington, Kansas City, and at Yale and other universities over the years. It currently hangs in New York at St. John of the Divine Episcopal Church.
This piece caught my attention not because of the current political climate and the #metoo movement, although I believe those things are well worth paying heed. It felt much more personal to me. For the last several years, prior to my move to San Francisco, I was involved with a Memphis non-profit that helps women who are seeking to leave lives of sex trafficking, addiction and abuse. One of the first women I talked to shared with me that she was able to stay safe on the streets without a pimp because God brought her the tricks that wouldn’t hurt her. My first instinct was to correct her theology. I’m glad I resisted that unfortunate impulse because what ended up happening is that she profoundly influenced my walk with God. What a powerful witness to be in such a desperate situation and still feel the embrace of a caring God! I became more aware of the suffering Christ in every woman who I had the privilege of walking with during the years I spent as spiritual director for them.
When I heard Rebecca Edwards, the co-founder of Braid Mission, a local non-profit who seeks to build community for foster youth, speak at SGN several months ago, I again became aware of the suffering Christ. As she spoke of the young girls in the foster care system, I saw in them the women with whom I had shared experiences in Memphis—abused, broken, beautiful but forgotten—and yet still somehow seeking the Sacred.
I am now a facilitator for Braid Mission, acting as a liaison for the mentors and the youth caregivers. While this means I don't have direct contact with only one youth, I have the privilege of hearing many of their stories each week as we meet with the Executive Directors to discuss what support may be needed for any given team. We celebrate often. A pair of glasses becomes a joyful shopping trip for the mentor team and their youth. Shared meals and events with youth build community. But we mourn, too. There is uncertainty as to the whereabouts of one youth and fear that there are pimps already grooming girls for life on the street under the guise of providing family. Sometimes I feel helpless. When my heart gets too heavy, I remember the promise of the psalmist:
For She does not despise nor abhor the poor in their poverty;
neither does She hide her face from them;
but when they cry to her She hears them. Psalm 22:23
I’m reminded that we need to cry out more on behalf of these women and girls who remain so vulnerable. To life their names up is an act of justice. And to trust that She hears us is an act of faith.
This piece caught my attention not because of the current political climate and the #metoo movement, although I believe those things are well worth paying heed. It felt much more personal to me. For the last several years, prior to my move to San Francisco, I was involved with a Memphis non-profit that helps women who are seeking to leave lives of sex trafficking, addiction and abuse. One of the first women I talked to shared with me that she was able to stay safe on the streets without a pimp because God brought her the tricks that wouldn’t hurt her. My first instinct was to correct her theology. I’m glad I resisted that unfortunate impulse because what ended up happening is that she profoundly influenced my walk with God. What a powerful witness to be in such a desperate situation and still feel the embrace of a caring God! I became more aware of the suffering Christ in every woman who I had the privilege of walking with during the years I spent as spiritual director for them.
When I heard Rebecca Edwards, the co-founder of Braid Mission, a local non-profit who seeks to build community for foster youth, speak at SGN several months ago, I again became aware of the suffering Christ. As she spoke of the young girls in the foster care system, I saw in them the women with whom I had shared experiences in Memphis—abused, broken, beautiful but forgotten—and yet still somehow seeking the Sacred.
I am now a facilitator for Braid Mission, acting as a liaison for the mentors and the youth caregivers. While this means I don't have direct contact with only one youth, I have the privilege of hearing many of their stories each week as we meet with the Executive Directors to discuss what support may be needed for any given team. We celebrate often. A pair of glasses becomes a joyful shopping trip for the mentor team and their youth. Shared meals and events with youth build community. But we mourn, too. There is uncertainty as to the whereabouts of one youth and fear that there are pimps already grooming girls for life on the street under the guise of providing family. Sometimes I feel helpless. When my heart gets too heavy, I remember the promise of the psalmist:
For She does not despise nor abhor the poor in their poverty;
neither does She hide her face from them;
but when they cry to her She hears them. Psalm 22:23
I’m reminded that we need to cry out more on behalf of these women and girls who remain so vulnerable. To life their names up is an act of justice. And to trust that She hears us is an act of faith.
Mark 8:31 - 38 by Joseph Farley
For many of us, Jesus is just embarrassing when he gets all apocalyptic. We’ve all been exposed in some fashion to people in our culture who believe really crazy things because they take the idea of a future apocalyptic intervention by God very seriously. Apocalyptic thought, while not universal, had permeated Judaism for a few centuries before the time of Jesus. It is clear that it’s a thread that runs throughout the New Testament, from John the Baptist to Jesus to the Apostles to Paul, culminating in the surrealistic violence of the Book of Revelation. So there’s no way to honestly deny that it’s there.
Apocalypse refers to what is revealed or uncovered. The idea that God would intervene and right the wrongs that had been visited on the Jewish people, often violently, was expounded on in multiple obscure Jewish texts, as well as accepted scripture such as the Book of Daniel. They often portray God rending the fabric of the Cosmos and cleansing the world with rivers of fire. The Jews who suffered occupation under the Greeks and Romans found this very appealing and felt it would take an overturning of the cosmic order to gain their freedom. So Jesus comes by his apocalyptic bent honestly.
The New Testament scholar, John Dominic Crossan proposes that the apocalypticism of Jesus was different from that of John the Baptist and the Jewish culture at large. John baptized and preached repentance because he expected the coming overturning of the world order and the establishment of the Kingdom of God through a big intervention by God. So the thing to do was to wait for action on the part of God. But Jesus seems to be saying something else. He preaches that the Kingdom is at hand and teaches that all should live as if the Reign of God is a present, living reality. So in contrast, Jesus teaches that present action on the part of his audience is called for. Jesus preaches forgiveness, common healing, eating and sharing, as well as a nonviolent resistance of oppression and evil. Jesus may have still expected a big event, but what is important in his teaching is how we live now. And all of this is only possible by the grace of the Spirit.
This is not easy. Every Sunday we dance beneath the icons of those who lived the present Reign of God, but found it required them to take up their cross. Mother Maria Skobotsova, Francis of Assisi, Iqbal Masih, Jannani Luwum, and many others who are portrayed or not, paid a very high price to live in the Way of Jesus. This does not necessarily entail martyrdom or asceticism. I believe the people who show up to run the food bank, or who provide aid to the imprisoned, or the sick or the homeless, or who resist the injustices of the present order may be living the Reign of God in ways that are equally as important. Ultimately it comes down to where we find ourselves in the present time. How can we live in the Reign of God, here and now?
Apocalypse refers to what is revealed or uncovered. The idea that God would intervene and right the wrongs that had been visited on the Jewish people, often violently, was expounded on in multiple obscure Jewish texts, as well as accepted scripture such as the Book of Daniel. They often portray God rending the fabric of the Cosmos and cleansing the world with rivers of fire. The Jews who suffered occupation under the Greeks and Romans found this very appealing and felt it would take an overturning of the cosmic order to gain their freedom. So Jesus comes by his apocalyptic bent honestly.
The New Testament scholar, John Dominic Crossan proposes that the apocalypticism of Jesus was different from that of John the Baptist and the Jewish culture at large. John baptized and preached repentance because he expected the coming overturning of the world order and the establishment of the Kingdom of God through a big intervention by God. So the thing to do was to wait for action on the part of God. But Jesus seems to be saying something else. He preaches that the Kingdom is at hand and teaches that all should live as if the Reign of God is a present, living reality. So in contrast, Jesus teaches that present action on the part of his audience is called for. Jesus preaches forgiveness, common healing, eating and sharing, as well as a nonviolent resistance of oppression and evil. Jesus may have still expected a big event, but what is important in his teaching is how we live now. And all of this is only possible by the grace of the Spirit.
This is not easy. Every Sunday we dance beneath the icons of those who lived the present Reign of God, but found it required them to take up their cross. Mother Maria Skobotsova, Francis of Assisi, Iqbal Masih, Jannani Luwum, and many others who are portrayed or not, paid a very high price to live in the Way of Jesus. This does not necessarily entail martyrdom or asceticism. I believe the people who show up to run the food bank, or who provide aid to the imprisoned, or the sick or the homeless, or who resist the injustices of the present order may be living the Reign of God in ways that are equally as important. Ultimately it comes down to where we find ourselves in the present time. How can we live in the Reign of God, here and now?
My Soul Wanted You by Sarah Thebarge
Several years ago I stood by the Jordan River, where Jesus was baptized before he began his ministry. On the banks of the river there’s a long wall where Mark 1:11 is written in at least 100 languages. In English the verse reads, “And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”
Our tour guide was Israeli, so he took us to the Hebrew translation of the verse. He said in Hebrew, the verse reads, “You are my son. My soul wanted you.”
My soul wanted you.
I waded into the river, letting the cool water wash over my feet as the words played again and again in my head.
My soul wanted you.
After his baptism, where the skies parted and the dove appeared and these words echoed from the heavens, Jesus went into the desert where he faced 40 days of temptation. Forty days of deprivation, loneliness, hunger and thirst.
But his wilderness experience was about more than deprivation. Ultimately, it was about desire.
Yes, he was hungry but he wanted Divine sustenance more. Yes, he was thirsty, but he was willing to wait for the Spring of Living Water he would later offer to the woman at the well. Yes, he felt called to do something great in this world, but he was willing to listen to his heavenly Parent instead of his pride.
My soul wanted you, the Divine Parent says to the Child at the river.
My soul wants you, too, the Child says to the Divine Parent, over and over again, for the forty days it took the wilderness to do its work.
Jesus would emerge from that wilderness with the clarity he needed to begin his ministry, with the determination he needed to proclaim the Good News again and again, with the faith it would take to lay down his life, confident that Resurrection was waiting on the other side of the cross.
More than two thousand years later, you and I are standing on the edge of a 40-day experience we call Lent.
In many ways, Lent can feel like Jesus’ experience of the wilderness. Forty days of deprivation, of waiting, of wanting. Forty days of trusting that in spite of the pain and death we see around us, the hope of Resurrection is just as true now as it ever was.
As we enter Lent, may we remember that the next forty days are not only about deprivation, they’re about intense desire.
During the next forty days, may we create the stillness and the silence to hear the Voice that whispers to us, I created you, my precious child, because my soul wanted you.
And may we say, over and over again for the 40 days (and the lifetime) it takes us to reach the Resurrection, My soul wants You, too.
Our tour guide was Israeli, so he took us to the Hebrew translation of the verse. He said in Hebrew, the verse reads, “You are my son. My soul wanted you.”
My soul wanted you.
I waded into the river, letting the cool water wash over my feet as the words played again and again in my head.
My soul wanted you.
After his baptism, where the skies parted and the dove appeared and these words echoed from the heavens, Jesus went into the desert where he faced 40 days of temptation. Forty days of deprivation, loneliness, hunger and thirst.
But his wilderness experience was about more than deprivation. Ultimately, it was about desire.
Yes, he was hungry but he wanted Divine sustenance more. Yes, he was thirsty, but he was willing to wait for the Spring of Living Water he would later offer to the woman at the well. Yes, he felt called to do something great in this world, but he was willing to listen to his heavenly Parent instead of his pride.
My soul wanted you, the Divine Parent says to the Child at the river.
My soul wants you, too, the Child says to the Divine Parent, over and over again, for the forty days it took the wilderness to do its work.
Jesus would emerge from that wilderness with the clarity he needed to begin his ministry, with the determination he needed to proclaim the Good News again and again, with the faith it would take to lay down his life, confident that Resurrection was waiting on the other side of the cross.
More than two thousand years later, you and I are standing on the edge of a 40-day experience we call Lent.
In many ways, Lent can feel like Jesus’ experience of the wilderness. Forty days of deprivation, of waiting, of wanting. Forty days of trusting that in spite of the pain and death we see around us, the hope of Resurrection is just as true now as it ever was.
As we enter Lent, may we remember that the next forty days are not only about deprivation, they’re about intense desire.
During the next forty days, may we create the stillness and the silence to hear the Voice that whispers to us, I created you, my precious child, because my soul wanted you.
And may we say, over and over again for the 40 days (and the lifetime) it takes us to reach the Resurrection, My soul wants You, too.
