Protest as Worship

"For many of us, the walk from Selma to Montgomery was about protest and prayer. Legs are not lips and walking is not kneeling. And yet our legs uttered songs. Even without words, our march was worship. I felt my legs were praying." Abraham Heschel

This Sunday, I attended an immigrant rights rally. I rarely miss church for anything-- church is the place I recharge for the rest of the week, meet God in the sacraments, and renew my commitment to service. But for some reason when I got up this morning, I decided to board a bus up to Nashua, NH to join other immigrant rights activists in standing for human rights.

As we prayed for blessing on our work, as we stood on the street corner and chatted together, I realized that what I was doing was also an act of worship. I felt my commitment to God and God's work renewed as I stood with other people and with new friends. A small counter demonstration held a placard that said; "Deport Illegal Aliens." Aliens. But the immigrants who are my friends are not aliens. They are human beings, made in God's image. At the center of my life as an activist is seeing Christ in every human being--seeing the humanity of every person. So, while I did not partake of the Eucharist today, I did meet Christ in all the lovely people that welcomed me in their midst. It was an act of worship to stand with and for people who are marginalized in society and live out Jesus' command to "love one another."

Of course, I will be back in church next Sunday.

A Tale of Three Churches

So, today, I decided to try to fit in three church visits in the same day. Ok, so I'm a nerdy seminary student! At any rate, I am so glad I went to each of them-- each had their own character and draw. One of the things I am loving about the Boston area is that I can access so many experiences. Walking to one church, I passed a beautiful chanted Ethiopian service, a prayer service starting at a beautiful masjid, and a lovely Buhhdist center that I would have walked into, but they were closed.

My morning started at St. James Episcopal Church in Porter Square...



This was my kind of service! Down to earth like I am used to back home (the priest was not even wearing an alb) in a beautiful building complete with gorgeous stained glass. Most beautiful were the people-- a very diverse urban congregation and lively! There were probably about 120 in attendance and the service was punctuated with amens and hymn music that, sung, sounded more like gospel. I loved that I was able to sing many of my favorite hymns from childhood. My favorite segment was the prayers of the people. Instead of the usual mumbling of requests, many people in the congregation offered prayers aloud for people they knew, recent crisises, or just reflecting on the sermon. It was a holy time, celebrating the Eucharist with black and white, citizen and immigrant, all one in Christ.

Then I headed out to the Boston Commons....


Here I joined the Common Cathedral, an outdoor church right in the middle of the commons, where most of the members are unhoused. And this was the most powerful service I have yet attended. The service was very simple and the music was led by a group of men with tamborines and harmonicas. There were about 40 people there, mostly the city's least wanted, with a few curious tourists who either took pictures or rolled their eyes. Sandwiches were handed out before and, come time for the prayers of the people, any person who wanted to had a chance to speak. Some gave a testimony, prayed for a friend, spoke about their fears or just thanked Jesus. I think this was the kind of place Jesus liked to hang out and I felt his presence. The singing was joyful and everyone seemed to know the words-- from the man who kept taking out his whiskey bottle to the girl dressed up in black and red leathers. And, best of all, all were welcome to the table as the priest and deacon and assistants walked around the circle and then the common area, offering all the bread and wine. Afterwards, a sweet older man with a daughter in college came up to me and gave me a cross and a blessing, sharing his story-- how, after 17 years on the street, he got a job a year ago and finally found an appartment recently. He talked about how God has changed his life.

A trip back to Cambridge and a nap later, I was ready to find an evening Spanish service...

So, I do get lost sometimes here and this was a bit hard to find, but I finally made it. About 150 showed up for Spanish mass at St. Mary of the Ascension Catholic Church. I couldn't navigate the missal well, but I enjoyed listening and understood a lot. I loved the priest's illustration during his sermon on the gospel for today as he shared his family's reaction to his decision to attend seminary (apparently, if I heard correctly, they wanted him to be a doctor instead). I felt a bit awkward in a catholic service in a new place with a language I am barely competent in, but I think I'll go back, after I find a order of service in Spanish so I know what to do next! Nothing is more beautiful to me than to hear the Padre Nuestro in Spanish-- especially when it was sung.

Starting a New Life

Then the delight, when your courage kindled,
And you stepped onto new ground...
Though your destination is not yet clear
You can trust the promise of this opening;
Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning
That is at one with your life's desire. John O'Donohue

I still cannot believe that I am here, in seminary, the place I've dreamed of for so many years. I still walk the campus and tell myself; "This is not a dream, I am really here." The years of waiting have been worth it-- I am ready for this new stage of my life. The best part of orientation was when the campus spiritual director took us on a walk through a labryinth and read this poem. It was a fitting start to a new journey, to take time to reflect on what has brought me to this place and where I will go from here. I felt a powerful sense of the presense of God, cradling me in motherly arms as I start this new life. It has been over a year since I prayed; "I will trust you on the sea" and embarked on this new path and found each door open for me. And it has brought me here, to Episcopal Divinity School, on the other side of the country.

I am settled in the little room that will be my home for the next three years and am learning to use Boston's public transportation. I am happy that I will be substantially reducing my carbon footprint! And I am signed up for classes and very excited to get started studying liberation theology and the church and social movements. I seem to fit in very well at EDS and am so grateful that I chose this school!

This weekend, I have spent a bit of time touring Cambridge and Boston, so here are a few pictures of what my new home looks like...

The campus...

In the Boston Commons in front of George Washington, my new friends, students from Africa...

A park in Cambridge... The stone monument memorializes the Irish potato famine and says in the back, "Never again should a people starve in a world of plenty." Besides the memorial sleeps a homeless man.

Downtown Boston...

Saying Goodbye-- for now

I grew up here on the Olympic Peninsula and while I am very excited to be off to seminary, I will miss the place I call home. This weekend, my sister and I drove around the entire Peninsula and I wrote a poem outside our hotel room in Port Townsend...


Today by the sea I say farewell
To the land that I call my home
The land that has nurtured me
and heard my sorrows
The land that has taught me
And filled my heart with joy.

I say farewell to the grand mountains
And windy mountain roads
To the towering ancient trees
Holding the memory of long ago.

I say farewell to the small forest paths
Lined with moss and lichen under a canopy of cedar
To the bracken rivers
Singing over broken moss-lined stone.

I say farewell to the tiny rural towns
Filled with poverty and laughter
To the uneasy blend of culture
Native tribes, loggers-- immigrants and city transplants.

I say farewell to the toppling farmhouses
With flecking red paint next to rotting silos
To the unkept fields, fences and barns
That speak of a dying way of life.

I say farewell to towering totem poles
Keeping the memory of an abandoned people
To the cedar canoe and the fishing boats
That once roamed and still roam to salty cove.

I say farewell to tourist towns
With streets lined with Victorian homes
To funky bookstores and logging museums
Lining two lane highways.

I say farewell to the creatures I know and love
The deer on the beach with her fawns
To the otter playing in the Hood Canal
And the grand bald eagle alone on the beach.

But I do not say farewell to the sea.
I may cross a continent, but the same
Sea that calls me here, will call me there
The rocks may be different, the seashore unique
But the sea is always the same.

And of course, I will come back!

I'm Back!

I stopped blogging for awhile due to personal circumstances, but since I am on my way to seminary, I thought this would be a good place to keep all my friends updated on my new life. I will be attending seminary beginning in just a few weeks. I am also applying for postulancy in the Episcopal church. I'll keep you all updated on my wild ride!

So I'm posting sermons...

This was my sermon for Epiphany I. It was a blessing to preach at St. Mark's Montesano for the first time!!


What do we know about Jesus as a young man? The gospels tell us almost nothing about the early life of the man Jesus. After the story of his birth, we have very little information on his childhood, his adolescence, his early adulthood. As far as we know, he lived a very ordinary life in the very ordinary town of Nazareth. Apparently, no one seemed to think he was anyone special.
Until he shows up in our passage this morning. This ordinary man from an ordinary town steps into the waters of the Jordan to be baptized by a ragged prophet and receives a call.

Jesus was a small town man. Montesano doesn’t show up on a lot of maps. When I tell someone I am from Montesano, I often get this look with a question mark. Where is that? When I say “I live in Montesano” to people who have lived in western Washington—maybe in Seattle or even Olympia—all their lives, many of them have no idea where our town is. Nazareth was a bit like that. First, it was in Galilee, kind of a backwater place with little strategic importance and worse, it was the home of the hicks. The Galileans were a culturally mixed people, the working class fisherman, the blue collar workers. Later in the gospels, when a future disciple hears Jesus is from Nazareth, he says; “Can anything good come from Nazareth?”

But here he is, a working man from a family of carpenters, fresh from a backwater town, stepping into the Jordan and hearing God’s voice. What an amazing experience that must have been!

Why wasn’t Jesus born to a wealthy family? He could have at least been born in Jerusalem, the center of religious and cultural power. Better yet, how about a wealthy Roman family who could have given him all the privileges of an upper class life? But when God reveals himself in the flesh, he comes to a poor, working family, living far from the centers of power.

By doing that, Jesus identifies with us, with the little people. He stands on the side of the poor and the backwater towns and the people that are not even noticed by the rest of the world. He stands on the side of the homeless, the nobody, the immigrant. By the side of small town people.
And the baptisms don’t stop with Jesus. In our passage in Acts, more little people are baptized. They are Samaritans, a renegade sect of Jews who intermarried with the wrong people. They were part of the group that good religious people did not associate with. And the baptisms continue to this day. We are part of Jesus’ motley band of followers, part of the fellowship of the baptized, part of the nobodies welcomed by God. Let’s not forget—this is Epiphany, the time where we celebrate the coming of the three wise men to see the Christ child. Let’s not forget that these men were likely of a different race and religion than the Holy Family and they were welcomed and celebrated just the same.

Several of us are part of a discernment class, meeting every week to try to better understand what it means to be part of this fellowship of the baptized and what it means for each of us individually.

We all have a call. It comes with the fellowship.

Let’s go back to the passage for a moment. Jesus steps into the water and he receives baptism at the hand of his cousin. Then he hears a voice—God’s voice coming out of heaven; “This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased.” Jesus heard what we are all looking for, what we are specifically looking for in our discernment class—to hear God’s voice of love and acceptance.

When I went to England last summer on pilgrimage, I was looking to hear that voice too. I had decisions to make in my life and I had this sense of call and I wanted to listen for God’s voice. At one point, in this enormous cathedral, standing in an empty, gloomy chapel, I stopped by the open lectionary at a table where passers-by were encouraged to write their prayer requests. I sat for awhile and I opened the book to the bookmarked page. And there were the words of our first reading this morning; “I have called you by name, you are mine.” I cannot tell you what that meant to me, there and in that place.

Because baptism and entering in that fellowship are not comfortable things. It is scary. What do we do with our call? Why would God want us? We can’t do anything. We’re no good at this or that.

But these are the words given to all of us this morning;
“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by name, you are mine.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;
when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.”

Because the God of love calls the little people. God accepts us even when we do not accept ourselves. And makes us a part of a great destiny.

When this young carpenter from a backwater town steps into the Jordan, the world changes and we are part of that change. He knew where this mission would lead him. The voice from heaven was for him, but it was also for the poor and the outcast. The people no one noticed were to be told that God loved and accepted them.

The fellowship of the baptized is destined to complete Jesus’ mission to offer welcome to all. Not only must we become aware of the fact that God accepts us, we must extend that acceptance in the world. We live in a world full of strife and violence and despair. A world where people are excluded because they are not part of the right group. A world where people without resources live on the streets in the rain. A world where we kill each other over religion and wealth. A world where little kids have to wonder if they will get dinner tonight.

It’s to this world that we are called to extend the acceptance and love of God.

That is message of our baptism. That is the message of Epiphany. Amen.

Sermon

Ghosts of Saints Past

Father Pete invited me here to talk about my own journey into the Episcopal church. I am currently at St. Mark’s in Montesano and am entering discernment for ordination. I grew up in various churches and it has been a long journey for me to get where I am today. One of my reasons for becoming an Episcopalian is so that I can stand here as a woman—not something that would have been allowed in the churches I grew up in.

But there are other, deeper reasons. Today is All Saint’s Day. It’s a day that we talk about death and remember loved ones we have lost. This morning, my church had an altar set up with votive candles to memorialize those we have lost. I left my mementoes there with the rest and prayed “In communion with all the saints, I remember….”

What do we mean “communion of the saints”? Some of us have probably stood, like Jesus in the gospel reading, at the grave of someone we love. We have grieved there, just as Jesus wept. It always reminds me of the scene in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, when he finally finds his parents’ graves in the dark graveyard of Godric’s Hallows. Harry and Hermione are wandering in the dark, going from gravestone to gravestone, Hermione nervous all the way. Harry is plagued by doubts about his mission and really just ready to give up. He has lost so many people that he loved and is just tired of it all. He seems so lost and alone in that scene, wondering how to go forward. Finally, Hermione calls him; “Its here.” And he sees it—the gravestones with their names; James and Lily Potter, buried within sight of where they died. He is startled to find a line inscribed on their grave; “The last enemy to be conquered is death.” He wonders if this is some mockery, some plot by Death Eaters. As usual, Hermione has an answer. She explains that it is not part of some wild quest for immortality, the quest of Voldemort, but it speaks of a hope that death is not the end. “It means…you know… living beyond death.”

That is what the passage in Revelation is talking about. Here’s John, the aged apostle, probably a prisoner on a remote island in the Mediterranean. Tired, he’s seen his share of suffering; his share of death; his share of grief. Yet, here he is, having a vision of a new city, a new world, a new world that is beginning right now. Later in the passage he describes the splendor and magnificence of this new world, but what he is really caught up in is the fact that death has been conquered here. There is a new order of things. There is hope that death is not the end.
There are many ways that death is conquered. One way brings us to this day. We remember all those who have gone before us—all those who have died and affirm our communion with them. We state our belief that all of the centuries of dead are not gone forever; that they are still with us now. One of the hymns we sing goes like this;

We on earth have union
With God the Three in One
And mystic sweet communion
With those whose rest is won.

In other words, those whom we have lost are part of this mystical city John was so enraptured with and so are we. Even though death seems so final, we are invited on days like this to see ourselves as part of a bigger picture—one that includes those who have died and those who are living. It invites us to imagine and experience heaven. We celebrate our faith with those who have gone before us.

This summer, I visited England’s Ely Cathedral. The building itself is nearly a thousand years old and a church has been on that site since the seventh century. When you walk into a place like that, there is a strange feeling that you are keeping company with people long dead. After all, the pews I sat in had been sat in my people for hundreds of generations and thousands of people for thousands of years had come to the Cathedral on pilgrimage.

So, in the company of all these “ghosts of pilgrims past,” I wandered around the chapels and walkways. It was this enormous place. I actually stayed there all day—especially through the thunderstorm. And in one of the center chapels was a shrine to Etheldreda, the foundress of the original church in the 670s. As I sat in the chapel and read her story, I felt this connection to her. She was a young woman intent on ministry in a time when it was not always easy for a woman to be involved in the church. Forced into a political marriage by her father, King Anna, she waited many years to do what she felt God had called her to do. Finally, she ran away from her husband and started a double monastery. In the early years of the Celtic church, double monasteries housing both men and women were common. I felt this immediate kindred spirit with the woman who lived nearly 1400 years ago and who was probably buried in some lost grave underneath the cathedral. I too had always felt called by God. I also had many obstacles to overcome. Somehow, I felt, even across so many centuries, that we understood each other. I swear I saw her wink when I got up to leave.

This is part of overcoming death. Harry may have stood at the graves of his parents and felt the finality of death, but later in the book, when he walks out to what he believes to be his own death, it is his parents and those he loves who keep him company on the way. They are not really gone—they are still with him, in memory. His godfather, Sirius, tells him; “We are a part of you…”

When I finally started attending the little Episcopal parish in the town I was living in, I was at the end of my rope. I was desperate to find God. Most of all, I was desperate for community, desperate to find a place where I was loved and accepted for who I was. And that is what I have found, but I found something more than what I was looking for— I found not only community with people in the present. I have found a community of saints that spans generations. I found a church that reverences and remembers and holds communion with the saints of the past as well… people past and present who will guide us into the future. I especially feel that on days like this, when we focus on those who have gone before us. We don’t treat them like they are gone forever, but realize that they are a part of us.

A picture of Etheldreda now sits on a table in my room, and though our lives are separated by 1400 years, our stories connect, because the God that led her to found that monastery is the same God that is leading me. She, and the thousands of others who have gone before, are a part of me, keeping me company as I go forward in life. Amen