Everywhere

One of my biggest fears has been that all this joy I’ve felt over the past year will only be limited to Hope. That the happiness and peace I’ve discovered at Hope, the intense connection I’ve felt with God will not travel well.

I worry about being able to find God outside the property lines of Hope.

It’s created a great deal of anxiety for me now that I’m beginning to think about seminary. In order to follow this call, I will have to spend a great amount of time over the next three, five or eight years in a classroom, learning the Bible, learning how to be a pastor.

And I’ve been distressed worrying that the classroom setting would somehow relegate God to pages in a book and make Him antiquated and dusty. I worried that in the classroom I would lose sight of the living God.

I love that even when I’m worrying needlessly about something that God doesn’t brush aside my fears and wait for me to figure it out on my own. Instead, He sends a friend to me to take me on a tour of the seminary I will probably attend, Asbury in Orlando.

Before I continue I want to preface this next part by saying I have no idea what my future holds and whether or not I will wind up at Asbury, but the four hours I spent there last Tuesday convinced me that at the very least, Asbury can be home to me like Hope is a home.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that God’s presence was as strong at Asbury as it has been for me at Hope. I could see God in the people there just like I see Him in the people of Hope. And when we met for Chapel and began to sing, I felt the same raw, spiritual emotions welling up inside my heart, just like I feel at Hope every Sunday.

But God is not just at Hope or just at Asbury. That is what I learned in my visit. Because when the emotions surfaced during Chapel, I realized that I had felt those emotions before at other churches long before I found Hope.

Even in churches that I could not join because I disagreed with where they stood on issues, I still felt a soul-stirring whenever we sang the hymns. I was still moved to tears.

God is everywhere. He is always reaching out to us, trying to make that connection.

Hope is a special church. It will always be special. I was lost and there I was found.

But God would be a very tiny God indeed if He allowed Himself to be hemmed in by four walls.

My new joy is discovering all the other places that I can find Him.

The Samaritan at the Well

My mom calls me “fiercely independent.”

And the example she likes to use is of the time when I was five years old and waiting for her to pick me up after school. She picked me up every day. My only responsibility was to walk out to her and get in the car. Except on this particular day, she wasn’t there. And I figured since she wasn’t there, she must want me to walk home.

So, off I went.

I was five.

Home was about four blocks down and one block over.

Mom caught up to me about halfway there.

I don’t remember her being angry, just frightened and confused. Why had I decided to walk home? Wasn’t I afraid?

Nope.

Fiercely independent.

In today’s Gospel reading (John 4:5-42), we meet another “fiercely independent” woman, the Samaritan at the well. Jesus stops there to rest and asks her for some water. But instead of complying as one might expect a subservient woman of the time period to do immediately, she balks.

Why is this strange man speaking to her? He is a Jew. She is a Samaritan.

And when he starts speaking of living water, she’s not buying it. She’s no pushover. You can almost see her rolling her eyes. Please … this man is going to give me water that’s going to make me never thirst again? He didn’t even bring a bucket to the well.

But Jesus persists. And it’s only when he reveals intimate details of her life, her previous five husbands, the fact that the man she lives with is not her husband that she finally sees him for what he is.

What’s fascinating is that it is NOT Jesus’s discussion of living water that sways her; it is his knowledge of her that convinces her of who he is.

She runs back to the city and declares to anyone who will listen, “Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done!”

She believes him because he knows her.

He knows her inside and out.

And so she believes and then brings others to him, so that they too might see and hear and believe.

I had my own moment at the well this past year. So many times we hear “Do you know God?” or “Do you know Jesus?” But the real question we’re missing is this:

Do you know that He knows you? Do you know that God knows you better than you know yourself? That He knows things (both good and bad) you are too afraid to admit to yourself because you’re too afraid of how that knowledge will change you?

I had been sitting at my own metaphorical well for many, many years, minding my own business, drinking from a well that wasn’t filling me in the slightest, but then I took a chance, like the Samaritan woman did by speaking to Jesus in the first place. I took a chance. I tried a new church on Easter and God spoke to me and I realized just how lost I had been.

And ever since then, I’ve done what the Samaritan woman did. I’ve shared what I’ve learned with anyone who will listen.

I am the Samaritan woman.

And so are you.

We have all spent time at the well.

To See the Face of God

When I was a child, I used to watch PBS quite a bit, probably because we didn’t have cable.

Nowadays, I couldn’t even tell you what channel PBS is on, but last week I stumbled across it when I saw that they were playing the Les Miserables 25th anniversary concert.

So instead of watching Glee, I turned on Les Miserables and listened to one of the first musicals I ever fell in love with.

But the reasons we fall in love when we’re a teenager are not, necessarily, the same things that draw us in when we’re an adult.

I remember as a kid loving Les Miserables because the heartache spoke to me, because of the plight of Fantine and Jean Valjean; the way they hurt spoke to the hurt inside of me.

Now, as an adult, I listen to Les Miserables and I still hear the heartache, but I also hear hope and redemption, grace and love.

Jean Valjean’s transformation from a bitter ex-convict to a man who risks his own life to save the life of another is made possible thanks to one single act of grace shown to Valjean from a bishop early in the story.

Having been released from prison and unable to find work, Valjean finds shelter in the house of a bishop who offers him a place to stay and food. Valjean uses the opportunity though to steal silverware from the bishop and flee.

But when he is later caught, Valjean is shocked when the bishop claims the silverware was a gift, and then takes it step further by saying that Valjean has forgotten his other “gifts,” promptly handing over to him silver candlesticks as well.

This single act of grace motivates Valjean the remainder of the story. When one of his workers, Fantine, dies as a result of trying to earn money for her daughter, Valjean adopts Cosette as his own. Later, Valjean joins the students who are rebelling against the French army and saves Cosette’s love, Marius.

And when given an opportunity to kill Javert, the man who has hunted him since his prison days, Valjean shows mercy and lets him live.

Just before he dies, Valjean’s final words are these: “To love another person is to see the face of God.”

Even writing these words makes me want to cry. To hear them sung moves me to tears each and every time.

At its core, Les Miserables is a story of love and what we are willing to sacrifice for that love. Fantine sacrifices her life for her daughter’s. Marius risks his life for the love of his brothers and fellow rebels. Eponine sacrifices her life to fight with her true love Marius. And Valjean risks his life to save his daughter Cosette’s love, Marius.

God is ever present in the story.

Not once, but twice, Valjean prays, first for Marius and his safety and then for himself as he’s about to die.

To love another person is to see the face of God.

It is a theme to live by, a theme to remember always.

Does God Speak Through Dove Chocolate Bars?

Before you dismiss the question right away, remember that God will do almost anything to get your attention, and I can think of no more fantastic Biblical example than Balaam’s talking donkey in the book of Numbers.

So Dove chocolate bars seem rather tame.

I’ve been feeling stressed lately, having a rough go of it and too afraid to pray because I’m afraid of the answer I might get.

Last week I was trying to figure out how to work full time, go to seminary and continue my spiritual journey at Hope. And the longer I thought about it, the more frustrated and angry I became because there seemed to be no way to do all three things. There are simply not enough hours in the day.

My dreams reflected that frustration.

One night I dreamed I was at church and found a bag of tennis balls. Having taught myself to juggle when I was kid, I picked out three of the balls and started to juggle, but I kept dropping them. I couldn’t even juggle two tennis balls, let alone three.

Another night I dreamed I was looking for a new place to live and the first place I found was an old church, but just when I found my home, I realized I was late to the 8:00 service at Hope. No matter how hard I tried I wasn’t going to make it on time. I got stuck in traffic and then when I did get to Hope, I wasn’t ready and everyone was waiting for me.

When I explained my frustrations to Pastor Debbie, she had two words for me.

Slow down.

Slow down? Really? Why would I want to do that?

For twelve years I didn’t just live life in the slow lane, I lived it parked out on the shoulder somewhere, and now that I know where I’m going, I don’t want the slow lane. I want to make up for lost time. I want to get where I’m going as quickly as possible.

Slow down?

Usually when I’m stressed I subsist on chocolate, specifically Dove dark chocolate. So in the midst of my stress and frustrations last week, I had to laugh when the message written on the inside wrapper said, “Take advantage of every free moment you have.”

I had to laugh. Here I was ignoring my priest’s order to slow down, but God knew I couldn’t ignore what was written on a chocolate wrapper.

There may be a time in my life in the near future when I don’t have any free time, but right now I do have time and I can either spend that time worrying about the future, or I can take a breath, slow down, and make the most of the time I have now.

And then, most importantly, I can leave the rest to God.

God will work out the particulars in my life. The fact that I can’t figure them out on my own, just illustrates how much I need God and how wonderful God’s plan will be considering I can’t see it yet.

A few days after I read the message on the wrapper, I was reading Eugene Peterson’s The Pastor: A Memoir. In it, someone offers Peterson the exact same advice. “He warned us against shortcuts. He encouraged us … not to be in a hurry. ‘A lot is going on when you don’t think anything is going on.’”

God speaks. He always speaks. He never stops. He never gives up trying to reach us.

Look out and see just how He is speaking to you.

And look out for that chocolate. It may be good for you in ways you can’t imagine.

And it's a lot less startling than a talking donkey.

A Prayer for Japan

In a scene from the 1959 movie version of The Diary of Anne Frank, the Franks, the Van Daans and Mr. Dussel are celebrating Chanukah in the Secret Annex in which they’ve been hiding from the Nazis. The celebration, though, is interrupted by a sound from below.

The thief that had robbed the factory before has returned. Instantly, Peter extinguishes the lights while all the rest sit in silence, unmoving. They know that the slightest noise will give them away.

As the thief works on the safe in the room below them, the families are still, except for one.

The cat, Mouschi, begins pawing across the floor. And in an effort to save them from discovery, Peter reaches for the cat, only to frighten it into screeching as he knocks over a bucket.

The thief flees from the noise and so begins the most suspenseful moment in the movie. Mr. Frank decides to leave their hiding place, to investigate whether or not the thief is gone and whether or not he has alerted the green police. He walks downstairs and Peter follows and then Anne.

On his way out of the factory, the thief leaves the door to the factory open arousing the suspicions of a man walking by. While Mr. Frank hides behind the door—a hammer in hand (his only weapon)—the man approaches two soldiers in the street and points to the open door.

In a second, several things happen all at once. Anne faints from fear. Peter grabs her, pulling her out of the line of sight while Mr. Frank flees up the stairs. All three reenter the Secret Annex.

And then both families sit on the other side of the wooden bookshelves that guard the entrance to their hiding place and wait to see if the soldiers will find them.

Through the whole ordeal, Mrs. Frank, alone, is praying.

I’ve seen the movie fifty times, but only just now have recognized the words.

She’s reciting Psalm 121.

These are the verses that I wish to send to the people of Japan, to the people who search for missing loved ones, to all those who cannot sleep at night, who cannot rest, because they have lost everything that is most precious to them.

These are the words that gave comfort to Mrs. Frank. These are the words that bring comfort to me.

From Psalm 121, verses 1-2 and 5-7. “I lift up my eyes to the hills—from where will my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth. The Lord is your keeper; the Lord is your shade at your right hand. The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life.”

Do not lose hope.

God has not nor will He ever abandon you.

His Love Endures

Last Saturday, I went to the see the Yankees play the Nationals in a spring training game close to where I live. I went with my soon to be eighty-nine year old grandfather and as we walked up to the stadium, I tried to hold the tears back.

My grandfather took me to my very first baseball game when I was ten years old or so. It was my first trip to New York City and what I remember is that we sat next to the visitor’s bullpen and even though I was a Yankees fan, I was thrilled to see White Sox catcher Carlton Fisk up close.

That was twenty-five years ago. It was a lifetime ago, or at the very least, a generation ago. The years have flown by with such speed that the events of my childhood sometimes feel like they happened to someone else.

Last week, I attended my first Ash Wednesday service in an Episcopal Church. Growing up Catholic, I don’t think I ever paid too much attention to Lent except that Lent meant fish fries at St. Paul’s on Fridays and that for some reason, St. Paul’s could never debone their fish properly.

So far, Lent in the Episcopal Church has seemed somewhat sad and muted. Anything shiny and gold plated has been replaced by simple wood. There are no flowers on the altar. There is a bit of heaviness to the air, solemnness, so that after the Ash Wednesday service in particular, it seemed wrong to even speak to someone in the church after the service had ended.

And yet, here and there, I find elements of joy, of impending joy. For these are the days leading to Easter and Easter is the day of God’s final triumph when Jesus rose from the dead.

As solemn an occasion as Ash Wednesday was, I found myself breathing easier as we read Psalm 103, in particular verses 14-17. “For he himself knows whereof we are made, he remembers that we are but dust. Our days are like the grass; we flourish like a flower in the field; when the wind goes over it, it is gone, and its place shall know it no more. But the merciful goodness of the Lord endures for ever.”

At first glance, these words can seem depressing. We are dust. Our lives are as fragile and quick as a flower in the field. What we perceive as years and decades, are mere nanoseconds in the history of the world.

But I see these verses somewhat differently. First I love that we are compared to flowers, because flowers are beautiful and those flowers that seem to bloom overnight, always make me catch my breath.

And secondly, keep in mind that the most important comparison the author makes is to God. Our lives are lived in a breath.

But God’s love is forever.

God’s love for us endures forever.

And so two baseball games, twenty-five years apart are in and of themselves rather meaningless, except when they bookend God’s gift to me of a grandfather’s love.

Dropped Call

In an episode of Dr. Who, the doctor and his companion, Amy Pond, travel back in time to visit with artist, Vincent Van Gogh. Amy and Vincent become instant friends, but as they walk along the countryside, Vincent suddenly notices that Amy is crying and asks her why.

Amy seems surprised herself that she is crying and can’t figure out why.

What Amy doesn’t know, but what the viewer knows is that Amy—in a plot you could only see in Dr. Who— has lost her fiancé. He was murdered and if his murder wasn’t enough, he was then swallowed by a rift in space-time that meant that not only was he dead, but it was as if he had never existed at all.

Amy has no memory of her lost fiancé. But even so, she is pained with an unimaginable and unexplainable grief.

There are moments when I feel a lot like Amy. I think we all have times like that. We may not have lost a loved one to a hole in the fabric of the universe, but, like Amy, we intuit that something is not right with the world we’re living in.

It’s as if we’ve been talking to God on the phone, having a powerful discussion on life and soul-work, and then we realize half-way through the conversation that the call has been dropped. And we wonder how long we’ve been out of touch, realizing that if we had only stopped talking sooner and started listening, we would know exactly where we stood with God.

Suddenly something inside us is broken. Suddenly we feel like half a soul.

We mourn. We grieve and we don’t know why. One day we’re at church or work and feeling full and blessed and then the next day, we are inexplicably saddened. We’ve lost something.

The world feels broken. And maybe, at most, we are aware of one, one-millionth of one percent of the specifics of that brokenness.

All we may know is only that something is “off.”

It is at these times, though, when we are sad and lost that we are most open to hearing God’s voice, if we could only sit still and listen.

Because God heals. God heals rifts in space and rifts in our souls even when we don’t know what exactly we’re grieving for.

God heals. God’s desire is to heal and by healing bring us closer to Him.

One of the ways we can aid our own healing is by finding those moments in life when we do feel closer to God, when He feels so near, we want to open our eyes during prayer, or reach out with our hand, convinced He is sitting there right next to us.

In The Fruits of the Spirit, Evelyn Underhill writes of those times. She says, “Have you not known such moments in life, when perhaps the sudden sight of a wild cherry in blossom, the abrupt disclosure of a great mountain, or the crowning moment of a great concerto, has revealed the perfect and flooded you with tranquil joy” (20).

I am glad to have found a kindred spirit in Evelyn Underhill. For I have felt those same things and when I am most shaken by the events of the world, I seek out the moments that Underhill describes.

In effect, I pick up the phone and try and reach God again.

The Puzzle

When I was interviewed at BACAM, one of the ways I described “the call” was by comparing it to a puzzle.

All my life I have held a box of puzzle pieces. Only I didn’t have the picture that went with the puzzle, so I had no idea what the finished puzzle was supposed to look like. Every piece seemed random and unnecessary.  And I was frustrated that I had to carry around this box of nothing.

And then last Easter, God gave me the picture. He didn’t put the puzzle together for me, but He showed me just what it would look like when it was finished. He showed me how those seemingly random and meaningless pieces aren’t random at all but fit perfectly together to form something beautiful.

Now my life has meaning. Now it has purpose and all I want to do is work on that puzzle and start fitting the pieces together.

The good news I have to share today is this:

The Commission on Ministry has recommended that I continue in the discernment process. And the Bishop has agreed.

One more piece of the puzzle fitted into place.

The Joy of Sacrifice

On the last day of BACAM, I stood out by the lake at the Canterbury Retreat Center in Oviedo. After seeing the view the day before, I had remembered to bring my camera that morning.

The water was still and a small group of ducks paddled their way across the lake leaving only the smallest of wakes behind them.

Across the lake, a tall, white cross stood on the shore. I don’t know the history of Canterbury or the history of that cross, but to me that cross standing out there in the midst of nothing but trees and lake could only have one message:

Remember.

Remember why you are here.

I was at Canterbury for BACAM, the Bishop’s Advisory Council on Aspirants to the Ministry. It was a two day event and at the end of two days of interviews and group exercises, the Commission on Ministry would meet and decide who to recommend to the Bishop to continue on in the process of becoming a deacon or priest.

As I left the lakeside that morning, I began to feel the weight of what that recommendation (yes or no) would mean for me. And after breakfast, with pancakes and eggs sitting like lead in my stomach, I texted Pastor Debbie, frantic for prayer.

Throughout the morning, I told my story repeatedly to each person who interviewed me. I told them of my journey to Hope, how God’s timing was perfect and divine, so that I would wind up exactly where I was supposed to be at just the right time.

I told them of walking into Hope last Easter, how it felt like waking up from a long, restless sleep.

And I told them that more than anything I wanted to share my story with others. I wanted everyone to know how God had worked in my life so that by knowing my story they might be able to see how God works in theirs.

I spoke of joy, of unceasing and life-affirming joy.

And then I spoke of sacrifice.

Virtually everyone who interviewed me that morning asked me if I was aware of the financial costs of this journey, specifically paying for seminary.

And I said yes, I was well aware of those costs, but that recently I had become aware of the true sacrifice involved in a journey to the priesthood.

Matthew 10:39 reads: “Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.”

Those words had meant nothing to me until just recently. Now that I understand the meaning of those words I can’t let go of them.

I have built over the past thirteen years a very comfortable, safe life for myself. I have a good job. I own my own home. I’m not rich, in any financial sense of the word, but I’m not suffering either. It has always been a goal of mine to reach that point where I could feel secure.

But I have to say that though God has clearly blessed me, I have reached this point in my life without consulting God. Who I am today is, in fact, the dream of a child. When I was thirteen I wrote in an autobiography for school that I hoped that one day I would be a teacher and a part-time writer.

And what do you know? I’ve achieved that dream.

But now I know that that dream is not God’s dream and that the life I have created for myself is not the life God intended for me.

And if I want to follow God’s path, I will have to let go of the life I have worked so hard for.

It is here that the words of Matthew resonate so clearly with me.

"Whoever loses his life for my sake will find it."

The first part is the sacrifice, a hard, albeit faith-strengthened sacrifice. The second part, though, (if you can get through the first part) is the blessing and the promise.

If you let go of the life you have made for yourself and give your life to God, you will find your life again, your true life, your true purpose, the life God has intended for you since before you were born.

If you can make that initial sacrifice, the blessings are enormous.

Who would have thought that there could be so much joy in sacrifice?

But there is.

As for now, BACAM is over, and I await the next step in the journey.