Christ the King Sunday

I stayed home from church today.  It’s Christ the King Sunday, a feast day in the Roman Catholic Church and an unofficial day of celebration in the Episcopal Church. This is the day to remember and celebrate Jesus’ lordship over all—all of creation, all of us, all of our efforts and institutions and systems. We Episcopalians should get on board with the Catholics here and make this a feast day.

My heart has been heavy. Death, sickness, poverty, cruelty, and selfishness persist. Syria. Ukraine. Libya. Israel. The US Congress.

Sad news from Beni continues to roll in. Friends, family, and colleagues in Beni soldier on. Our tiny band of international staff waits, prays, and works in Uganda. CI leadership wrestles with the normal challenges of organizational life and leadership in a not-so-normal environment. What does Stephen Covey have to say about insecurity and unrest in Seven Habits?

Today I needed to sit with prayer, scripture, and God. 

The collect for the day (Episcopal BCP, p. 236):

Almighty and everlasting God, whose will it is to restore all things in your well-beloved Son, the King of kings and lord of lords; Mercifully grant that the peoples of the earth, divided and enslaved by sin, may be freed and brought together under his most gracious rule; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

The readings for today reference a kingly God and a God of power:

• Worship the Lord…come into his presence...
• Enter his gates with thanksgiving
• ….immeasurable greatness of his power…
• God put this power to work in Christ…and seated him at his right hand in the heavenly places far above all rule and authority and power and dominion… 

Ezekiel references God as a shepherd (a rather lowly occupation in the day) of an unruly and doltish flock (adjectives mine, not Ezekiel's). 

Then there is the Matthew 25 passage. Jesus, God made flesh, Emmanuel, was and is hungry, thirsty, naked, sick, imprisoned. He was and is a stranger—someone from somewhere else. Jesus the King is broken and in need. King Jesus, broken and in need, asks us for help. King Jesus asks us for some food, a cup of water, clothing and shelter, care and presence, and a warm welcome.

This is where my heart opened up. Something inside said, "Love." I don't know how or why or where that word came from. The word love isn't in today's readings, per se. But it is implied in the actions. God loves us. God doesn't reign imperially and imperiously. God reigns with love and gentleness. God's desire is for our complete restoration—a healthy planet, healthy families, good relationships, people at peace. 

I do not love the people wreaking havoc in Beni and other places in the world. But God does. And while I am not physically able to give the cup of water, I can pray for that cup of water. I can pray that God's love would pour down on each one, just as today's rainstorm drenched us here in Kampala. 

Dear God, King of All, yes, please restore all things and bring all people together—all of us separated and divided and hating and hurting each other. Bring us each and all to freedom and peace. May we do our part. May we love each other across those divides and separations. Help me to pray your love on those whom I do not want to love.

“…so said all the disciples."

Today’s gospel reading is Matthew 26:26-35. The last supper,  Jesus’ prophesy that the disciples will “all become deserters,” and Peter’s declaration (v. 34), “Even though I must die with you, I will not deny you.”

Then verse 35, “And so said all the disciples.” 

Peter gets the bad rap. He’s the one quoted in the gospels. But, “So said all the disciples”! They all promised fidelity. And then they all panicked and ran for cover.

Growing up, I heard the stories from the Bible as stories happening to other people. The Israelites crossed the Red Sea, wandered in the wilderness, disobeyed God, and complained when manna became a boring staple. Samson became proud and arrogant. The disciples tripped over each other, argued, and missed the point many times. Then there were the Pharisees and Sadducees. Terrible ones, they. Sure, there were stories about people doing the right thing—Miriam hiding her baby brother, Ruth sticking by Naomi, Rahab protecting the spies, John the Baptist prophesying, even the disciples managing, on occasion, to figure things out.

But always I saw these as stories about other people in other times. Sure we were to learn from their examples, but the stories were about the other. They were someone else’s stories.

Chalk it up to ignorance, immaturity, “seeing through a glass darkly.”

I don’t know that I’m any smarter or mature (aged, yes). And my eyesight continues to deteriorate with the passage of time. But God in Her and His graciousness helped me to see that these are my stories also.

So when Peter and the disciples promise that they will stick by Jesus no matter what, I am there. It’s not just that I make those promises, then run for cover when exhaustion, pride, frustration, and life challenge me to a “double-dog-dare.” I am there with that group of brothers in the middle of the night. I stand with the whole lot and promise, “I will not deny you.” I am implicated. Those are my words, too.

But that doesn’t keep Jesus from loving me, from coming back and extending grace and love. Even days later, when I don’t recognize Him, Jesus walks with me on the road.

A few reminders

God, Karma, the Holy Spirit, the alignment of stars? Who knows. But over the last few weeks (while I’ve been chasing my tale in a mad frenzy to stay “on top of things”), I’ve tripped over a few reminders about two things that are important: mindfulness and listening.

Thanks to OnBeing interviews with social psychologist Ellen Langer and StoryCorps creator David Isay for shaking me awake (or settling me down?).

Langer describes mindfulness as “the very simple process of actively noticing new things.” It’s paying attention and looking at a person or event or situation with eyes open to something completely new. It’s leaving behind expectations (or “unplanned resentments”).  Isay talks about the sacred spaces of listening and how most people (most of us) simply want that—to be listened to. Listening in this way is mindfulness. It’s being open and awake to the other person and to her or his story. It’s honoring the holiness of that person, a child of God.

From Langer and Isay I headed over to Parker Palmer and the Center for Courage and Renewal and references to sacred listening. These forays reminded me of experiences with spiritual directors and counselors who provided sacred space for listening and opened doors to whispers of truth.

Another stopover: Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s “Advice to Christians.”   Something we Christians should take to heart in our dealings with each other, as much as in our relationships with those who do not profess a faith in Christ! Echoes the quotation attributed to St. Francis of Assisi, “Preach the gospel always, and if necessary, use words.”

We waste so much time trying to convince others of our points of view. We argue and posture and defend. How many times would we be better served, would we better serve the other person, if we just listened?

The best bit comes from David Isay's story about Dan Rather's interview with Mother Theresa.

He asked her what she said during her prayers. And she said, “I listen.” Rather then said, “Well, then what does God say to you?” And she said, “He listens.”

Brief Witness

We are here to abet Creation and to witness it, to notice each thing so each thing gets noticed . . . so that Creation need not play to an empty house.  Annie Dillard

 A reminder to sit, observe, and be.

As I sat in the quiet of the early morning onThursday, I noticed a spot of red against the green wall of cassava that edges the property. I tip-toed cautiously through the wet grass (the previous night's dinner discussion focused on East Africa's snakes) and came upon a lone blossom.

It leaned like a wounded warrior in the no-man's land between shamba (veggie garden) and lawn.

Today, three days later, even as Jackson cuts the grass to submission, the flower still stands and greets from afar. 

Taking Action

It was not a pretty week last week. Well, I was not very pretty last week. The line up of tasks, responsibilities, and needs crowded against the counter like mad shoppers on black Friday, jostling and tugging, refusing to queue up or take a number for service.  Then my computer, which has been suffering maladies for the past three months, briefly sank into a coma. It felt like my partner against the mad onslaught threatened to leave me completely defenseless.

At least that’s how it all felt.

In the moments of computer lucidity, I shot off an email asking for prayers for encouragement and strength and wisdom and anything else my friends could think of.

My computer popped a few aspirin and came back to work. The day proceeded and I checked off a couple of items on the “to do “ list. But my heart still sat heavy and I couldn’t seem to lift my gaze from my own feet. That evening I allowed a series of events to compound my despondency until my own discomfort impelled me to take personal inventory, admit my part, choose willingness to have God remove those character defects, and take the action to do so.

The next morning, Psalm 16 greeted me and the last verse spoke directly to me: “You show me the path of life; In your presence there is fullness of joy; In your right hand are pleasures forevermore.” I have to take action. I have to walk the path. I have to accept and live into that fullness of joy. I have to take from that right hand, or grasp that hand for comfort and direction.

An unsettling image came to mind. It was the image of a stubborn, selfish child in the playground, sitting on the outside of the circle, watching everyone else have fun while choosing to wallow in self-pity. It wasn’t a pretty image. It’s certainly not how I’d want others to see me.

Clearly an attitude change was in order. Not just an attitude change about my view of circumstances, but an attitude change about my posture toward God and God’s promises and gifts.  There is a path of life. But standing at the edge and waiting for some miracle is not the same as stepping onto that path and walking into the miracle. I believe that there is fullness of joy in God. But I have to choose to live into that joy and extravagant grace. I have to lean into the wind of it for propulsion. And the hand full of pleasures (the Common English Bible translates, “Beautiful things are always in your right hand.”) invites me to take and hold.

I can’t say for certain what made the difference that day, and the days that have followed: prayers for strength and encouragement offered up by friends and loved ones, my attitude change, or a renewed understanding and willingness to take action with God. But I can attest to renewed strength and joy over the last few days. I can also affirm, based on experienced, that God works with us as much as for us.

God-carrier

I’m selfish. I admit it. I want people to do things the way I think they should be done. I want events to unfold according to my expectations. I begin too many sentences with I.

But when I give in to God and allow that people and events do as they are supposed to do, God either teaches, surprises, or blesses me. God has been sprinkling blessings amidst the teaching lately (“a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down?”).

For this stint in Beni, I’m living at Bethel House—a house that CI-UCBC is renting to accommodate international staff and visiting professors. For the first time we Americans (currently it’s Americans who make up “international staff”) share living space and meals with Congolese professors. It’s a grand opportunity for cultures to brush up against each other.

This past week I’ve been harboring ill feelings towards one of my “housemates.” He hasn’t done anything to me. He’s just been who he is, wrapped in his personality, preferences, and values, a product of his culture and experiences, with views about gender and class shaped by all of that and more. And, of course, I’ve been wrapped in my personality, preferences, and values. I, too, am a product of my culture and experiences, with views about gender and class.

I confess that earlier this week I did not want to spend time with this teacher. I was not interested in getting to know him or engaging in conversation. I had developed opinions and maintained prejudices based on a handful of observations. My selfishness and tendency towards judgment stood firm.

Then Desmond Tutu challenged me in that loving, impish voice and that gentle, magnanimous spirit. Krista Tippett conducted an interview with him in 2010 for On Being. Early in the interview Bishop Tutu responds to a question about the “dynamite” power of the Bible. He says, “We are created in the image of God….Each one of us is a God-carrier,” then proceeds to tell the story of a township parish he pastored early in his ministry. The members were poor, many of them domestic workers in the white enclaves in another world. Most of the women were called “Annie,” and most of the men were called “Boy,” because the whites insisted the African names were too difficult to pronounce. Tutu would tell his congregants, “When they ask ‘Who are you?’ tell them, ‘I’m a God-carrier. I’m God’s partner.’"

God-carrier. We’re each of us a God-carrier? Yes. Created in God’s image. Yes, we are. We are. Not just me. Not just the people I love, or the people who are my friends, or the people I enjoy being with, or the people with whom I gladly and expectantly share my life. But even the moto-driver who insists on charging me double the going rate for a ride between Bethel House and the UCBC campus is a God-carrier. The Congolese youth who stares and shouts, “Muzungu!” when I pass is a God-carrier. My temporary housemate is a God-carrier. Ouch!

Have I become great friends with this other teacher? No. But as I’ve allowed my heart to soften, mealtimes are more pleasant, at least for me. I’m less inclined to focus on what I find distasteful. I’m kinder and gentler and more inclined to act as a God-carrier myself.

A Lesson in Grace

This is not a lesson I’m proud of. But it’s true. And, as Frederich Buechner reminds us in Telling Secrets, we’d all do better as a faith community if we told the truth about ourselves. So, here’s a little truth-telling.

On Saturday I subbed in an English class. The part that I hate to admit: I was holding onto some resentments. Sure, I agreed to help out a colleague, but I wasn’t happy about it. No one’s fault but my own. (I've made my amends). I was also enjoying the Sweet-Tart of resentment at a couple of others colleagues. (The reason doesn't matter. What does is that I need to do Steps 4-10.)

Back to Saturday. The plans indicated that I would be free to do my own work after giving a quiz and talking through some information with the class. I only had an hour of responsibility. The students would self-manage their work for the remaining 3 hours of class.

Well, remember, “If you think you know the plans…”? J’oublie (I forget. A statement in French that I don't forget!).

The quiz took longer than planned. The mini-lecture took longer than planned. Students had more questions than time allowed. I had neglected to make photocopies of the day’s assignment on Friday. So, in the interim when students moved from the classroom to the library, urgently pleaded with the photocopier to comply with my needs. The power shut off in the middle of photocopying, lodging a piece of paper in mid-copy. After the power resumed, it was 10 minutes of trying to problem-solve before I waved the white flag, surrendered to machine, and ran down the hall to where students were trying to figure out my hasty explanations. Did I mention that I had been harboring resentments?

Students started crowding around me with questions about the assignment. And questions about assignments I didn’t know about. And questions about how to proceed with or without assigned partners. And questions about…

I so wanted to take the lid off the grudge sludge and dump it on the floor. But God intervened. Grace intervened. Lessons hard-learned over the last many years whispered truths, including one of the most difficult for me, “Be present. Be in the moment.” I saw the situation for what it was. Students trying to do their work. Students desiring to learn. The only person deserving of my irritation was me. My character defect, willfulness, was eager to lay claim to the moment. It was a decision-point: 


Decide to show grace or to be___ (multiple choice):

A. A_ _

B. B_ _ _ _ 

C. Creep

D. All the above

I don’t take credit for the decision to show grace. It was God, in God’s great mercy and grace. God gave grace to me, so that I, in turn, could show grace to the students. Thank you, Jesus.

The evening before I had listened to two podcasts of Rob Bell preaching at Mars Hill Church. The first was a teaching on Grace from November 6, 2011. The second was a teaching on I John 2, about Love, from May 30, 2011.

Find them. Listen to them. These are the kinds of messages that Christians should be known for—showing love and grace—not anti-abortion, homophobia, “family values,” and “protecting our borders."

Anyway…a few things about grace that prepared me for Saturday (with thanks to Rob Bell):

Grace meets us in the moment when we are most terrified of being found out. Grace confronts us with who we truly are. It’s when we are afraid that our worst secrets, character defects, failures, doubts, hurts, perverse thoughts will be found out, that grace shows up.

Grace shines a light, not to embarrass us, but to say, “Yes, this is true. But now that you admit it, you own the fear, the secret, the failure. You seize its power. It no longer has power over you.” A friend one time reminded me, “Yes, you may not like what's going on. But it is a fact. And once you accept it, you will be able to deal with it and move forward.” And he was right.

Saturday I was afraid that my ugly side, my sick desire for the resentment Sweet-Tart, was going to expose itself. Grace showed up. Shined a mirror and a spotlight in my face. I was able to accept my nasty side and say, “No.”

Grace is a gift. It’s not something we earn. It is true gift. And part of what is so surprising is that the gift comes when we least “deserve” it. It comes when we’re so sure of our weakness and failure and deceit. It came on Saturday when I didn’t deserve it. I was not in a pretty place. But grace showed up.

When grace confronts us it also says, “You’re better than that.” It reminds us that we are made in God’s image. That, as the Hasidic tradition says, we each have a divine spark at our core. On Saturday grace reminded me that I was better than resentment and nastiness; better than A, B, and C. Not better in the sense of superiority, but that I could behave better. Made in the image of God, I had the opportunity to act better than my base instinct.

More profoundly, though, grace has shown up in dark places in my past—places where I have been ashamed. It has shone the light and invited me to step out and be free of the shame.

So, I haven’t said anything about the podcast on love. Maybe that’s for another entry. But, one of the daily readings Saturday morning, before I went to school, was I Corinthians 13:1-13. Thank you, God, for the booster shot I didn’t know I needed.

Nothing matters but love. Nothing. Absolutely NOTHING. Spiritual gifts. Prophesy. Knowledge. Faith. Actions. Self-sacrifice. Tithing. Giving gifts of any sort. Giving up of self. Nothing matters but love. Because love never ends. It is God. It is the Word. It is Jesus. It is Jesus living in us. Prophesies come to an end. Knowledge comes to an end. Actions come to an end. There is something eternal and cosmically connected. It is all love.

I listened to the Grace podcast again this morning. Bell plays the opening of the movie Tree of Life with the following narration:

The nuns taught us there are two ways through life. The Way of Nature and the Way of Grace. We have to choose which one to follow. Grace doesn’t try to please itself. Accepts being slighted, forgotten, disliked. Accepts insults and injuries. Nature only wants to please itself and others to please it too. Likes to lord it over them, to have its own way. It finds reasons to be unhappy when all the world is shining around it and love is smiling through all things. They taught us that no one who ever lives the Way of Grace ever comes to a bad end.

Sounds a bit like I Corinthians 13, doesn’t it?

God, please don’t give up on me. Not yet. I need your grace. Today and always. Help me to live the Way of Grace, to be an instrument of your grace.


And here's another tidbit: Paul bookends each of his epistles (Romans through Philemon) with "Grace and peace to you," and "Grace be with you." I guess Paul thought grace was important.