Through Stained Glass: A Mid-Week Reflection-Sunday Rose

I have a confession:

                                                                        I am a liturginerd.

What does that mean you ask?

Essentially it means this:  someone who is extra enthusiastic about something to do with their church life, whether that’s theology, the liturgy, or just being an exuberant Presbyterian.

One of the reasons I love being Presbyterian is that we follow the liturgical calendar. This calendar begins on the first Sunday of Advent, which normally begins in late November. A major reason why the church follows the liturgical calendar/year can be simplified down to this point:  many periods of time shape us, and most of them do not begin or end at the same time.

The civic new year is, at best, a calendrical device designed to regulate the daily affairs of people. Meanwhile, the liturgical year is the year that sets out to attune the life of the Christian to the life of Jesus, the Christ. Feminist Christian mystic Joan Chittister says, “[The liturgical year] proposes, year after year, to immerse us over and over again into the sense and substance of the Christian life until, eventually, we become what we say we are—followers of Jesus all the way to the heart of God.” The liturgical year is an adventure in human growth, an exercise in spiritual ripening.

Currently the church is smack in the middle of Lent.

Did you know this upcoming Sunday, has a different name and color to it?

The Fourth Sunday of Lent (March 18th) is called Laetare Sunday, when the church (specifically speaking the Roman Church) takes a bit of breather from Lenten practice and opens worship with the Entrance Antiphon, “Rejoice, Jerusalem … Be joyful, all who were in mourning!” – taken from Isaiah chapter 66.

Like the third Sunday of Advent ("Gaudete Sunday"), the fourth Sunday of Lent is a break in an otherwise penitential season.  The day is a day of relaxation from normal Lenten rigors; a day of hope with Easter being at last within sight. One way the church has marked this hope is by changing the paraments from purple to pink. The rose colored cloth on Laetare Sunday is a custom originating as a symbol of joy and hope in the middle of this somber season.

This Sunday could not come at more perfect time. Robins have been spotted under your feeder and I bet, if you look close enough, you can see the earth come alive again.

Resurrection is coming.

Easter is near.

That is good news.

Rejoice, friends. You’re doing good work where you are, exactly as you are.

Here is one last bit of liturginerd information for ya.

Laetare Sunday is also called “Rose Sunday” because of the papal blessing of the golden rose, a floral spray blessed by the pope and given to a notable person or institution.

I’m not the pope.

But I give you this rose because your life,

your story,

your presence

is a gift to us all.

Be well. Be rose-y. Above all, be you!

No matter what the world preaches
spring unfolds in its appointed time,
the violets open and the roses,
snow in its hour builds its shining curves,
there's the laughter of children at play,
and the wholesome sweetness of rhyme.
~Mary Oliver, No Matter What

Through Stained Glass: Advent Word of the Day-Wept So Loudly

Day 6:  Wept So Loudly

“I went inside my heart
to see how it was.
Something there makes me hear
the whole world weeping.”
― Rumi

Joseph wept so loudly that the Egyptians heard it. [Genesis 45.3]

There are days when the weight of the world gets to me.

Those days when the winter’s darkness denies what little joy there is in the season.

Some times, nights last longer than they should.

If I’m honest, and I’m about to be, when these times of nights disrupt my sleep, it is easy for me to weep.

Growing up in a time when boys were supposed to grit their teeth and not show any emotion, I’ve always been a sensitive person—acutely aware of those around me.

Some times my sensitivity gets the best of me.

But there is no shame in crying. No weakness in weeping.

Tears are your body’s release valve for stress, sadness, grief, anxiety, and frustration. 

And crying, as many health professionals will tell you, actually crying makes us feel better, even when a problem persists.

Advent is the one season when I am the weepiest. Purposefully waiting with eyes open and ears tuned to the rhythms of the world, my heart is tenderized at the realization of how many ache to be seen, hurt to be heard, and weep just to be loved. I enter into advent expecting to encounter all the emotions many of the characters we meet along the way felt.

Despair. Joy. Sadness. Delight. Worry. Excitement. Uncertainty. Assurance.

I think the only way to really get the word of the day, one must read a little before and after verse 3.

45Then Joseph could no longer control himself before all those who stood by him, and he cried out, ‘Send everyone away from me.’ So no one stayed with him when Joseph made himself known to his brothers.²And he wept so loudly that the Egyptians heard it, and the household of Pharaoh heard it. ³Joseph said to his brothers, ‘I am Joseph. Is my father still alive?’ But his brothers could not answer him, so dismayed were they at his presence.

Reconciliation instead of revenge.

It became so much for Joseph, the hatred from his brothers, their kidnapping of him, and even their failed attempt to murder him, as we all their settling to sell him into slavery, he had no response but to

weep.

And friends, sometimes that is all we can find energy to do.

It is okay to cry.

It is even okay to weep.

After all,

weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning.

***

Often, I imagine my tears rolling off my cheek and into the baptismal pool in which I was claimed. The photo is of the font from our chapel at work. As the waters of baptism heal, so do the tears we shed.

Through Stained Glass: A Mid-Week Reflection-Sometimes

It is that time of the year again, when churches come alive with exotic jungle scenes and other far out places. Those spaces where adults meet to discuss the church’s “important items” are now occupied by the youngest among us. Their wide eyes and unbridled spirits fill the steeples with vibrant laughter and hopeful imagination.

I have fond memories of attending Vacation Bible School myself. It was the time of the summer where I got to go to church at night and sing songs at my own pace. More importantly, it was at Vacation Bible School where the foundation of my faith was laid, as I sung songs about God’s love for me.

Though technology has changed since my time in VBS, the message is the same:

Jesus loves you.

This is a scene from Weird Animals - brought to you and 

your children by the Lincoln Neighborhood 

VBS churches July 7-11, 2014. 

Come learn about weird creatures and God's Love!

All week, we’ve led the children in an adventure through the realities of life. Our time together has been spent exploring how sometimes we don’t fit in; how sometimes we are noticeably different; and how sometimes, we just don’t know why things happen. But what we do know is this: that we are all created exactly as God wanted us to be; that God sees us as beautiful, especially because of our differences; and that though we may not understand why things happen, God’s love remains constant.

It is easy to write our children off as the ‘future of the church.’ After all, they aren’t writing checks or contributing financially to the latest church campaign. After spending a week at VBS, I’m reminded again that our children are as much of the movers and shakers of the church as we adults are.

We have much to learn from our children.

I learn from their enthusiastic proclamation of the gospel: that even when we feel left out, Jesus loves you.

I learn from children who, though formerly strangers, lock hands and sing that age old song we all sang when we were little:  Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so.

I learn from their gallant statements, as they boldly tell me that though they feel weird and strange at times, they know in their hearts that God is with them.

I learn from their focus, not on politics or hot button issues, but on learning each others names and favorite animals.

Above all, the greatest lesson I’ve learned from the children at Vacation Bible School this week is accepting one simple truth: that God loves me just as I am.

Nothing else.

Nothing more.

This makes me think of my favorite quote from Trappist monk Thomas Merton who once said, “To say that I am made in the image of God is to say that love is the reason for my existence, for God is love. Love is my true identity. Selflessness is my true self. Love is my true character. Love is my name.” 

Indeed, Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.

But, Jesus too, loves 50+ children who wiggle and squirm, giggle and worship, sing and dance, all because they know that God loves them.

Through Stained Glass: A Mid-Week Reflection--Sunrise

Sunrise

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you!

All of you, I am grateful for every one of you.

You all made this Lenten season, Holy Week, and Easter a meaningful journey that ended [but also just beginning] in such a beautiful way.

It is my hope you all have found the worship meaningful and the conversations before, during, and after any of the worship, education, and fellowship opportunities life giving and fruitful.

Again, our journey is just beginning. Eastertide is 50 days! That means we have 50 days of exploring and participating in the meaning of the Resurrection.

So, as we move forward, let us claim that same spirit of joy and courage that dwelt within our sisters on that first Resurrection morning.

With the days lasting longer and the earth turning more green, let us remember the invitation the women offered to us: to love Jesus with a perfect love and to believe in the power of the Resurrection. They have told their Resurrection story. So now it is our turn as a church, as a people of God, to tell ours.

See you at Kirk Night on Wednesday and church on Sunday [301 Pekin Street @10 am!]!

Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed!

[Part of this week's post is the sermon preached at the Easter Sunrise Service at First Presbyterian Church.]

“Morning’s Resurrection Song”

Matthew 28.1-10

Easter Sunrise Service Year A

So what began in a wild wilderness ends in a green-ing garden. There was not an earthquake; there was no great light; nor was there a loud trumpet: instead, we have been brought here this morning by pure hope. Just when we thought there would be no more light in the Jerusalem sky, the Bright and Morning Star appeared, and the darkness has not overcome it.[1] Though sorrow may last through the night, joy inevitably comes in the morning. Rousing us from our slumber this early morning is not death’s hold on life, but the celebration of life made new; a new day, a new opportunity to seek and encounter the risen Christ.

The sun rose when we started singing our first hymn at
the sunrise service on Easter morning. 

We find ourselves here early in the morning, basking in the moment Christmas pointed to, the moment Holy Week obscured, the moment the tomb reveals. “On Easter morning we find the manger full of life; on Easter morning we find the tomb empty of death. We know the whole truth now, don’t we? We like Mary Magdalene on that first morning know that death is not the end, and that life as we know it is only the beginning of Life. In the events leading up to this moment— beginning with the Palms last Sunday, carrying through the foot washing on Thursday, into the death on Friday and the praying on Saturday— we have learned that there is no suffering from which we cannot rise.[2] It is the empty tomb on Easter Sunday morning that delivers this hope, saying to us, “You go and tell the others. Now!”

But before those words emerge, these words were uttered, first by the angels, then by the risen Christ himself: “Do not be afraid.” This calming command comes from an authority laden with power that is beyond the scope of world -- a messenger who, this story tells us, rolled a huge stone, sat on it (maintaining a rather matter-of-fact posture, to be sure), shone like electricity, engendered such magnificence that the guards swooned, and then had the audacity to assert that there was nothing to fear. With no need for fear, the women are then instructed by the angel to move into their lives with swashbuckling abandon. We, too, are so instructed. Because God’s power has overturned all expectations in our world, we have nothing from which to coil into self-protection.

            No longer is there reason to fear death; no longer must we hide from the darkness of life; no longer will we quake in anxious anticipation, awaiting the unknown.

            At the heart of the angel’s message, and central to Jesus’s bold assurance against fear, is the message of a new life—an unprecedented way of being and existing in the world. Thomas Merton articulated this sentiment well: “Christianity is a first of all a way of life, rather than a way of thought. It is only by living the Christian life that we come to understand the full meaning of the Christian message. The meaning of this message, the meaning of the Easter morning, is precisely that God has come to dwell in humanity and to show, in humanity, that the sorrows, sufferings, and defeats inherent in human existence can’ never deprive [our] life of meaning as long as God is capable of deciding to live as a child of God and consents to let God live and triumph in our hearts.” Thus, to be a Christian, to be an Easter people, is not only to believe in Christ, but to live as Christ, and in a mysterious way, to become united with Christ.

            Morning’s Resurrection song is a greeting call, an invitation to not be afraid, but to engage our privilege, bearing witness to the good news that God through Christ, by the power of the Holy Spirit, is making all things new, even now, even in me and in you.

The story of resurrection is happening all around us. Recognition may require us to get outside the church, get our hands dirty in the garden that is the world, but if we pay attention, if we practice waking up to the God who is doing new things, we will be overwhelmed by the abundance of life unfolding before us, even presently, in our midst.

            So friends, we come here, to the garden, not alone, but together, together in the promise and in the hope of the resurrection. We may have arrived tired and battered, holes worn through our shoes from walking through Holy Week, but we’ve made it. Waiting for us in this space and time is the very same person who met Mary then: the Risen Christ. This morning, together we hear the good news that Christ has been raised, not as an invitation to come to heaven when we die, but as a declaration that Christ himself is now living within and among us.

            That my friends, that is where we leave this morning, staring a new reality in the eye, encountering a gaze that warms the heart, and a look that lavishes love on our weary souls. The story of Christ’s resurrection makes us mindful that every moment and every event of every person’s life on earth plants something in our soul. For just as the wind carries thousands of winged seeds, so each moment brings with it germs of spiritual vitality that come to rest undetectably in the minds and hearts of all people.

            Let us then live together in resurrection, acknowledging the return of joy, the echo of God’s life, as it walks among us.

           

           

---

[1] Lines inspired from a poem by Ann Weems:  Easter

[2] Joan Chittister.  “The Liturgical Year.”  (Nashville:  Thomas Nelson, 2009), 164.