We were just ordinary men trying to make a living - out in the fields all night, guarding the flock, keeping watch. We had seen a lot of strange things, at night, out in the fields. We had our share of bear stories, wolf stories; we'd fought lions.
But we had never seen anything like this. Right in the middle of an ordinary night, right in the middle of an ordinary job, something broke through from a realm beyond our sight.
A choir of heavenly messengers filled our eyes. Unto you, they sang - unto you! Salvation comes, the king is born, God has fulfilled his promise. Go and see: go into the town and look for a baby, an ordinary baby, all wrapped up and ready for bed, but sleeping in a manger -- that's him.
That BABY is God incarnate: a baby lying in a manger, gently breathing, his folks standing by. This is the sign of God that everyone has been waiting for. This is the Messiah, the King of Kings, the Son of David, Christ Almighty -- don't you want to tell somebody about it?
We're no angels. We're just shepherds, working the night shift on a far hillside. The mother herself saw no angels tonight, only us -- bringing the message, confirming what she knew in her heart, that today, in the City of David, is born a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.
How then on an ordinary day are you to recognize the Christ Child? How is he born in your life -- in your town?
You go about your business in your ordinary way -- and yet: something extraordinary is happening even now, in your heart, in your life, in your will. Christ is being born. God has sent his Redeemer to you, to establish the way of peace, to bring righteousness and peace to the world he has made, to the person he has made, to you.
JRL+
Christmas, Christmas Eve, Luke 1:1-20, John 1:1-14 (15-18), Isaiah 9:2-7, Titus 2:11-14,Isaiah 62:6-7, Psalm 96, Psalm 97, Psalm 98, Titus 3:4-7, Hebrews 1:1-4
Herbert O'Driscoll, The Word Today (Anglican Book Centre)
Fred B. Craddock et al., Preaching through the Christian Year (Trinity Press International)
St Alban's Episcopal Church
Edmonds, Washington
Monday, December 24, 2007
Sunday, December 23, 2007
in the waiting room
Last Tuesday I made a mistake: I went to Urgent Care without my copy of War and Peace. I had a long wait. I am not sure I used it as well as I could.
Waiting for the Christ to come may feel a bit like waiting to be treated in Urgent Care. You get a few promises up front, and are told to wait.
Hours go by. What is going on? When will I be seen? Have I been forgotten? When will I be treated? When will I be whole again?
But that’s not it. There is more to the story.
Waiting for the Christ to come may feel even more like reading War and Peace. While you are in it, it is totally absorbing. Then eventually you finish the book.
All those characters, all those people you have met, even friends you have made among them, now disappear into a past memory, only a haze. You are no longer in the world of the novel: now you are in the “real world.”
Of course characters in a novel are merely shadows in a play. But we might feel like that ourselves, sometimes. This world may seem a brief and transitory place. Real life lies ahead, as well as all around us (though hidden), in the mystery of Christ and of the Resurrection.
And this is like Paul’s comment, “now we see as through a glass darkly: then we shall see face to face.” Imagine what it will be like to see Christ in person.
Every week when we take communion, and at holiday times like Christmas when we remember loved ones, we put ourselves in touch with not only those who like us see through a glass darkly, those who are living, but also with those who have gone on before us to see God face to face. We ourselves are not ready, we protest, for such a blessing. Just a little bit more time, please.
In his mercy God is preparing us so that when we do meet him face to face, in the life to come, we will be able to stand it. That “glass darkly” is a little like the smoked glass you used to watch an eclipse through; it kept you from being dazzled by too much light.
These eyes, that dazzled now and weak,
At glancing motes in sunshine wink,
Shall see the King’s full glory break,
Nor from the blissful vision shrink:
In fearless love and hope uncloyed
For ever on that ocean bright
Empowered to gaze; and undestroyed
Deeper and deeper plunge in light.
(John Keble, “Fourth Sunday in Advent”, The Christian Year)
We need to be prepared, so that—not on our own merits but by the grace of Christ—when we see God face to face we will be able to stand it.
A foretaste of that glory is ours today, in the mystery of the coming of Christ. And a foretaste of that mercy is ours as well, for God came to us not in the form of a ruler or a man of power (much as we might have hoped for that) but in the form of a helpless baby. He comes as prince of peace.
As Luther said, “Divinity may terrify us. Inexpressible mystery will crush us. That is why Christ took on our humanity, save for sin, that he should not terrify us but rather that with love and favor he should console and confirm. …he is come, not to judge you, but to save.”
(Roland H. Bainton, ed., The Martin Luther Christmas Book, Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1948, p. 40)
Salvation, however, does not wait. The message of Jesus, and the joy of life with him, is not postponed until some later time, after death or the second coming. It is present with us here and now, brought forth for us first in the tiny manger-dweller we meet on Christmas morning.
In this humble and innocent form comes to us the majesty of God. In other words, we find God not in inaccessible realms of glory but in day-to-day, even humble, form.
And we continue to find him, in practical terms, in loving God in our neighbor.
“You have Christ in your neighbor. You ought to serve him, for what you do to your neighbor in need you do to the Lord Christ himself.” (Luther, p. 38)
Even as we place our neighbor in the place of Christ, serving God in our neighbor, we begin to take on the characteristics Christ showed for us on Christmas morning.
He, the Son of God, being above all angels, did not take equality with God as a thing to be grasped onto, but allowed himself to be emptied into the form of a child, a helpless human infant. And then he began to serve.
“For unto you is born this day—that is, unto us. For our sakes he has taken flesh and blood from a woman, [so] that his birth might become our birth. I too may boast that I am a son of Mary. This is the way to observe this feast—that Christ be formed in us.” (Luther, p. 44)
And this is the secret: Christ in you, the hope of Glory. This is the season of a new birth—not only the birth of the Messiah 2000 years ago but also his emergence within our lives, as we become formed into the people God has called us to be.
JRL+
December 23, 2007
Saint Alban’s Episcopal Church
Edmonds, Washington
Waiting for the Christ to come may feel a bit like waiting to be treated in Urgent Care. You get a few promises up front, and are told to wait.
Hours go by. What is going on? When will I be seen? Have I been forgotten? When will I be treated? When will I be whole again?
But that’s not it. There is more to the story.
Waiting for the Christ to come may feel even more like reading War and Peace. While you are in it, it is totally absorbing. Then eventually you finish the book.
All those characters, all those people you have met, even friends you have made among them, now disappear into a past memory, only a haze. You are no longer in the world of the novel: now you are in the “real world.”
Of course characters in a novel are merely shadows in a play. But we might feel like that ourselves, sometimes. This world may seem a brief and transitory place. Real life lies ahead, as well as all around us (though hidden), in the mystery of Christ and of the Resurrection.
And this is like Paul’s comment, “now we see as through a glass darkly: then we shall see face to face.” Imagine what it will be like to see Christ in person.
Every week when we take communion, and at holiday times like Christmas when we remember loved ones, we put ourselves in touch with not only those who like us see through a glass darkly, those who are living, but also with those who have gone on before us to see God face to face. We ourselves are not ready, we protest, for such a blessing. Just a little bit more time, please.
In his mercy God is preparing us so that when we do meet him face to face, in the life to come, we will be able to stand it. That “glass darkly” is a little like the smoked glass you used to watch an eclipse through; it kept you from being dazzled by too much light.
These eyes, that dazzled now and weak,
At glancing motes in sunshine wink,
Shall see the King’s full glory break,
Nor from the blissful vision shrink:
In fearless love and hope uncloyed
For ever on that ocean bright
Empowered to gaze; and undestroyed
Deeper and deeper plunge in light.
(John Keble, “Fourth Sunday in Advent”, The Christian Year)
We need to be prepared, so that—not on our own merits but by the grace of Christ—when we see God face to face we will be able to stand it.
A foretaste of that glory is ours today, in the mystery of the coming of Christ. And a foretaste of that mercy is ours as well, for God came to us not in the form of a ruler or a man of power (much as we might have hoped for that) but in the form of a helpless baby. He comes as prince of peace.
As Luther said, “Divinity may terrify us. Inexpressible mystery will crush us. That is why Christ took on our humanity, save for sin, that he should not terrify us but rather that with love and favor he should console and confirm. …he is come, not to judge you, but to save.”
(Roland H. Bainton, ed., The Martin Luther Christmas Book, Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1948, p. 40)
Salvation, however, does not wait. The message of Jesus, and the joy of life with him, is not postponed until some later time, after death or the second coming. It is present with us here and now, brought forth for us first in the tiny manger-dweller we meet on Christmas morning.
In this humble and innocent form comes to us the majesty of God. In other words, we find God not in inaccessible realms of glory but in day-to-day, even humble, form.
And we continue to find him, in practical terms, in loving God in our neighbor.
“You have Christ in your neighbor. You ought to serve him, for what you do to your neighbor in need you do to the Lord Christ himself.” (Luther, p. 38)
Even as we place our neighbor in the place of Christ, serving God in our neighbor, we begin to take on the characteristics Christ showed for us on Christmas morning.
He, the Son of God, being above all angels, did not take equality with God as a thing to be grasped onto, but allowed himself to be emptied into the form of a child, a helpless human infant. And then he began to serve.
“For unto you is born this day—that is, unto us. For our sakes he has taken flesh and blood from a woman, [so] that his birth might become our birth. I too may boast that I am a son of Mary. This is the way to observe this feast—that Christ be formed in us.” (Luther, p. 44)
And this is the secret: Christ in you, the hope of Glory. This is the season of a new birth—not only the birth of the Messiah 2000 years ago but also his emergence within our lives, as we become formed into the people God has called us to be.
JRL+
December 23, 2007
Saint Alban’s Episcopal Church
Edmonds, Washington
Friday, December 21, 2007
Jed Smith Christmas
Today we delivered Christmas gift bags to children at Jed Smith Elementary School. The kids were thrilled to see Santa. One young boy was so excited to get a small box of crayons. I heard others excited about their new socks. It was touching and great fun.
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Santa (Randy Cheek) with a student from the school.
You can see all the pictures here.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Katharine Jefferts Schori for President
Here's an excerpt from a remarkable article written by Teresa Morrison for The Advocate.
I firmly believe that within a generation the antigay hate speech Bishop Schofield so freely espouses will receive as little tolerance as we do today, and I look forward to a time when men like him will wish they had quietly harbored hatred rather than staking their reputations on it. Meanwhile, Bishop Jefferts Schori and other proponents of inclusion will be credited with having furthered the integrity of their faith institutions as dynamic, relevant forces in the 21st century.
Non-Episcopalian gays and lesbians might not think we have a dog in this fight, but we all have a vested interest in the outcome. We find ourselves in a very rare position here, one so unfamiliar to LGBT people we can scarcely grasp its significance: In the determination of the U.S. Episcopal Church to take a stand for our equality and inclusion, we have everything to gain and nothing to lose, while the folks fighting for us risk their political and financial footing in the Anglican Communion, the third-largest Christian body in the world, which is far more sympathetic toward your Bishops Schofield than to the progressive platform embraced by Bishop Jefferts Schori and the majority of her church’s 2.5 million members.
We never asked Episcopalians to take up our fight. Rather, it seems, their spiritual path has led them to believe that we aren’t any less deserving of ministry or recognition or even consecration simply because we happen to be unpopular sexual minorities. I wish that weren’t an extraordinary concept in 2007, but it is. And Bishop Jefferts Schori has hardly blinked in a year of denominational strife that has seen her character and her commitment to her religious office questioned, challenged, dismissed, and maligned.
In this age of gay bashing from all sides, it isn’t often we encounter a religious leader—or any leader—willing to bulldog for our rights, especially when faced with such a potentially high cost to herself and the institution she represents. What I wouldn’t give for such genuine representation in our elected officials.
When I consider the trail of broken promises left by those we helped to elect, Bishop Jefferts Schori's position becomes that much more remarkable. Reacting to the secession vote in San Joaquin, she not only refused to retreat from her position, she reiterated it: “We deeply regret their unwillingness or inability to live within the historical Anglican understanding of comprehensiveness. We wish them to know of our prayers for them and their journey. The Episcopal Church will continue in the diocese of San Joaquin, albeit with new leadership.”
I keep meaning to bake that woman a cake.
In my fruitless search for a presidential candidate who not only believes in my essential equality but is willing to say it out loud and stand by his or her position when the inevitable attacks come down, I wonder if any money I may have set aside to donate to that elusive candidate’s campaign might not be better spent tithing to the Episcopal Church. At least there I know my support will go toward furthering my rights, not sending them to the back of the bus—or throwing them under it.
Like others who have read this article, it makes me proud of my Church. You can read the whole article here.
I firmly believe that within a generation the antigay hate speech Bishop Schofield so freely espouses will receive as little tolerance as we do today, and I look forward to a time when men like him will wish they had quietly harbored hatred rather than staking their reputations on it. Meanwhile, Bishop Jefferts Schori and other proponents of inclusion will be credited with having furthered the integrity of their faith institutions as dynamic, relevant forces in the 21st century.
Non-Episcopalian gays and lesbians might not think we have a dog in this fight, but we all have a vested interest in the outcome. We find ourselves in a very rare position here, one so unfamiliar to LGBT people we can scarcely grasp its significance: In the determination of the U.S. Episcopal Church to take a stand for our equality and inclusion, we have everything to gain and nothing to lose, while the folks fighting for us risk their political and financial footing in the Anglican Communion, the third-largest Christian body in the world, which is far more sympathetic toward your Bishops Schofield than to the progressive platform embraced by Bishop Jefferts Schori and the majority of her church’s 2.5 million members.
We never asked Episcopalians to take up our fight. Rather, it seems, their spiritual path has led them to believe that we aren’t any less deserving of ministry or recognition or even consecration simply because we happen to be unpopular sexual minorities. I wish that weren’t an extraordinary concept in 2007, but it is. And Bishop Jefferts Schori has hardly blinked in a year of denominational strife that has seen her character and her commitment to her religious office questioned, challenged, dismissed, and maligned.
In this age of gay bashing from all sides, it isn’t often we encounter a religious leader—or any leader—willing to bulldog for our rights, especially when faced with such a potentially high cost to herself and the institution she represents. What I wouldn’t give for such genuine representation in our elected officials.
When I consider the trail of broken promises left by those we helped to elect, Bishop Jefferts Schori's position becomes that much more remarkable. Reacting to the secession vote in San Joaquin, she not only refused to retreat from her position, she reiterated it: “We deeply regret their unwillingness or inability to live within the historical Anglican understanding of comprehensiveness. We wish them to know of our prayers for them and their journey. The Episcopal Church will continue in the diocese of San Joaquin, albeit with new leadership.”
I keep meaning to bake that woman a cake.
In my fruitless search for a presidential candidate who not only believes in my essential equality but is willing to say it out loud and stand by his or her position when the inevitable attacks come down, I wonder if any money I may have set aside to donate to that elusive candidate’s campaign might not be better spent tithing to the Episcopal Church. At least there I know my support will go toward furthering my rights, not sending them to the back of the bus—or throwing them under it.
Like others who have read this article, it makes me proud of my Church. You can read the whole article here.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Blessing Same-Sex Relationship
On Saturday, December 8 I was given the opportunity to bless the union of Richard Stapler and Michael Mendez at Trinity Church in San Francisco. While I love weddings (I've officiated at well over 200) this service was special. It was my first blessing service for a same-sex couple. It was done during a remarkable weekend on which we hosted two Tibetan Buddhist monks at Trinity Cathedral in Sacramento. It was also ironic that both the blessing service and the mandala occurred on the same weekend that the Doicese of San Joaquin chose to leave the Episcopal Church.
Mandala Overview
From December 6-9 we hosted two Tibetan Buddhist monks who created a sand mandala of the Medicine Buddha in the East Transept of the Cathedral. It was a remarkable experience. Close to 5000 people came to the Cathedral and our Sunday morning services were over-full. Here are some links to images and articles:
Articles I wrote for the Sacramento news and Review:
Radical Hospitality
Sand Mandala
Audio of Sunday (Dec. 9) sermon
Sacramento Bee slideshow
Sacramento Bee article
KCRA slideshow
KCRA video
Trinity Cathedral's Photobucket page
Turtle Vision images
Message from Mike Halfhill of the Dalai Lama Foundation:
On behalf of the Dalai Lama Foundation Sacramento Area Chapter I would like to thank everyone who helped make this event a beautiful and fulfilling experience for many. Our community has been uplifted and strengthened through the efforts of Trinity Cathedral, Spiritual Life Center, East West Books and Sacramento Friends of Tibet as hosts along with the DLF. I would like to give a special thanks to Trinity Cathedral and Dean Brian Baker for their overwhelming hospitality and support in allowing the use of their facilities for the monks to be there and share their Sacred Healing Arts with us. It is a living testament that we can come together and work side by side with great respect for each others traditions. I would also like to thank the media for acknowledging this as a newsworthy event. Thank you all.
Christmas Tree
This was originally written for Trinity's newsletter.
Yesterday (Monday before Christmas Eve) we got our Christmas tree. Andrea and I drove up to Apple Hill and tromped through a muddy tree farm. It was a rainy day. We pushed through wet branches and found the right tree. We cut it down and hauled it to the car. We stopped at a winery for a tasting and bought a case of wine to have for Christmas parties. (It was our first time visiting a winery in the foothills.) We got home just in time to get the kids from school. We had to drive them around to their various activities, help with homework, etc. After attending an elementary school band concert, we hauled the boxes of decorations down from the attic. We put on Christmas music, lit a fire, made cider and got to work. Of course each of these items, mentioned in passing, took more time than expected. We had to find the Christmas music. It was our first fire of the season so we had to find all the necessary equipment and split some wood. The cider, well that was pretty straightforward.
The tree, however, was not. The tree that looked so perfect in the pine forest, was too tall for our living room. And it was very fat. And it had odd bulges. Of course I didn’t measure the height of the tree until after I brought it into the house and tried to set it up. Then I had to cut the tree down to size (in the house) and as a family we muscled it into its stand. I got to work trimming the bulges and thinning it so it would fit in the room. I was tired and grumpy as I lay on the floor adjusting the stand so the tree would stand straight(ish). By the time the lights were strung, it was well past bedtime. But the tree was up, music was playing, the fire was lit and hot cider was consumed and one of the Baker family traditions (including the grumpy dad) was observed one more year.
The day of tree getting and decorating has always been for me a symbol of Christmas and of my life. It is a great deal of work. There is much to be done. And it would be easy to see this day as a chore rather than a blessing. It would be easy to be distracted by the business of it all and miss the joy.
Of course the whole point of Christmas is to show us that all of life is a blessing. God is with us constantly. And at least this year I’m blessed with a glimpse of that presence in my family, in my church and in my too-big, oddly shaped Christmas tree.
Yesterday (Monday before Christmas Eve) we got our Christmas tree. Andrea and I drove up to Apple Hill and tromped through a muddy tree farm. It was a rainy day. We pushed through wet branches and found the right tree. We cut it down and hauled it to the car. We stopped at a winery for a tasting and bought a case of wine to have for Christmas parties. (It was our first time visiting a winery in the foothills.) We got home just in time to get the kids from school. We had to drive them around to their various activities, help with homework, etc. After attending an elementary school band concert, we hauled the boxes of decorations down from the attic. We put on Christmas music, lit a fire, made cider and got to work. Of course each of these items, mentioned in passing, took more time than expected. We had to find the Christmas music. It was our first fire of the season so we had to find all the necessary equipment and split some wood. The cider, well that was pretty straightforward.
The tree, however, was not. The tree that looked so perfect in the pine forest, was too tall for our living room. And it was very fat. And it had odd bulges. Of course I didn’t measure the height of the tree until after I brought it into the house and tried to set it up. Then I had to cut the tree down to size (in the house) and as a family we muscled it into its stand. I got to work trimming the bulges and thinning it so it would fit in the room. I was tired and grumpy as I lay on the floor adjusting the stand so the tree would stand straight(ish). By the time the lights were strung, it was well past bedtime. But the tree was up, music was playing, the fire was lit and hot cider was consumed and one of the Baker family traditions (including the grumpy dad) was observed one more year.
The day of tree getting and decorating has always been for me a symbol of Christmas and of my life. It is a great deal of work. There is much to be done. And it would be easy to see this day as a chore rather than a blessing. It would be easy to be distracted by the business of it all and miss the joy.
Of course the whole point of Christmas is to show us that all of life is a blessing. God is with us constantly. And at least this year I’m blessed with a glimpse of that presence in my family, in my church and in my too-big, oddly shaped Christmas tree.
Radical Hospitality
This essay was originally written for the Sacramento News & Review
How would you describe the brokenness of our world? In what ways are we living lives too small for us? One way Christianity answers these questions is through language of separation. We are estranged, or separated from God, from one another and from our true selves. Separation within the human family is obvious when watching the news or listening to political rhetoric. Whether it’s Sunni vs. Shia, Democrat vs. Republican, liberal vs. conservative, pro-life vs. pro-choice, people are estranged from one another in endless ways. And this separation is not usually benign. We all too often consider ourselves superior to those in the other group. This superiority allows us to demonize and belittle the other. And the world becomes more fractured.
I do not believe this is how God intends us to live our lives. We are created to be interdependent, not independent. We are designed to be in communion and community with one another, which is one reason why hospitality is such an important spiritual discipline. We exercise hospitality when we make room in our lives, in our homes, in our social circles for others, particularly those who are different.
One reason Trinity Cathedral hosted the Tibetan Buddhist sand mandala and the monks who created it was to model radical hospitality. We wanted to show the world how two different religious traditions could come together, not simply to have a discussion, but to share intimate worship space and spiritual practices. And the willingness of the Buddhists to bring their spiritual practice into a Christian cathedral modeled the same hospitality.
The results were spectacular. The mandala alone was radiant and the monks were gracious and spirit-filled. But the context, the mandala within the Christian cathedral, made it even more remarkable. I was enthralled. I found it difficult to focus on anything else. It felt like God’s Kingdom of Love was blossoming right there.
But the hosting of the mandala was not problem-free. Hostpitality can be messy. We often have to make accommodations for others. People have different ways of living, different cultural expectations. The Cathedral can be a very busy place and people have different expectations of what will go on in a church (talking/laughing vs. silence, eating vs. not eating.) Worship services and music rehearsals took place while the monks were working and visitors were passing through. There were collisions of sound and space.
One such collision happened at 9am on Friday. We celebrate communion every day at Trinity Cathedral. On Fridays, the communion is at 9 a.m., which is also when the monks began their work with prayer and chanting. On Friday, Canon Carey, an 80-year-old priest, was at the high altar blessing the bread and wine (a particularly holy moment in the service) when the monks began chanting in the East Transept, about 15 feet away.
Some people might have taken offense. After all, shouldn’t the guests be more sensitive to services that are happening in the Cathedral? When Canon Cary recounted this experience for me, he was not offended at all. In fact, he said he was so moved by the beauty of the chanting happening at such a holy moment in his service, that he was moved to tears. He told the small congregation gathered for communion that this was a communion they would never forget.
Isn’t that beautiful? Christian communion enriched by Buddhist chanting. Such beauty can become manifest when we open our lives to those who are different from us. And God’s Kingdom of Love draws nearer.
-Dean Baker
How would you describe the brokenness of our world? In what ways are we living lives too small for us? One way Christianity answers these questions is through language of separation. We are estranged, or separated from God, from one another and from our true selves. Separation within the human family is obvious when watching the news or listening to political rhetoric. Whether it’s Sunni vs. Shia, Democrat vs. Republican, liberal vs. conservative, pro-life vs. pro-choice, people are estranged from one another in endless ways. And this separation is not usually benign. We all too often consider ourselves superior to those in the other group. This superiority allows us to demonize and belittle the other. And the world becomes more fractured.
I do not believe this is how God intends us to live our lives. We are created to be interdependent, not independent. We are designed to be in communion and community with one another, which is one reason why hospitality is such an important spiritual discipline. We exercise hospitality when we make room in our lives, in our homes, in our social circles for others, particularly those who are different.
One reason Trinity Cathedral hosted the Tibetan Buddhist sand mandala and the monks who created it was to model radical hospitality. We wanted to show the world how two different religious traditions could come together, not simply to have a discussion, but to share intimate worship space and spiritual practices. And the willingness of the Buddhists to bring their spiritual practice into a Christian cathedral modeled the same hospitality.
The results were spectacular. The mandala alone was radiant and the monks were gracious and spirit-filled. But the context, the mandala within the Christian cathedral, made it even more remarkable. I was enthralled. I found it difficult to focus on anything else. It felt like God’s Kingdom of Love was blossoming right there.
But the hosting of the mandala was not problem-free. Hostpitality can be messy. We often have to make accommodations for others. People have different ways of living, different cultural expectations. The Cathedral can be a very busy place and people have different expectations of what will go on in a church (talking/laughing vs. silence, eating vs. not eating.) Worship services and music rehearsals took place while the monks were working and visitors were passing through. There were collisions of sound and space.
One such collision happened at 9am on Friday. We celebrate communion every day at Trinity Cathedral. On Fridays, the communion is at 9 a.m., which is also when the monks began their work with prayer and chanting. On Friday, Canon Carey, an 80-year-old priest, was at the high altar blessing the bread and wine (a particularly holy moment in the service) when the monks began chanting in the East Transept, about 15 feet away.
Some people might have taken offense. After all, shouldn’t the guests be more sensitive to services that are happening in the Cathedral? When Canon Cary recounted this experience for me, he was not offended at all. In fact, he said he was so moved by the beauty of the chanting happening at such a holy moment in his service, that he was moved to tears. He told the small congregation gathered for communion that this was a communion they would never forget.
Isn’t that beautiful? Christian communion enriched by Buddhist chanting. Such beauty can become manifest when we open our lives to those who are different from us. And God’s Kingdom of Love draws nearer.
-Dean Baker
Sand Mandala
This essay was originally written for the Sacramento News & Review
Several years ago, while serving as a priest in Sun Valley, Idaho, a young woman visited me. She was to be married and she wondered if I would officiate at an Episcopal wedding service that included Tibetan Buddhist prayers. I was a little skeptical. Not because I didn’t think Buddhist prayers should be said at a Christian wedding. Rather I wanted to make sure Pilar, the young woman, was serious about her Buddhist practice. In my community Tibetan Buddhism had an exotic mystique and I wanted to make sure the prayers would be said with integrity rather than simply added to be chic.
As it turned out, Pilar was a devout Tibetan Buddhist and was very intentional in her spiritual practice. I did officiate at her wedding and she and I became good friends. She taught me Yoga. We began meditating together and after we prayed, we would teach each other about our different religious traditions. We opened our conversations to the wider community. Because of my friendship with Pilar, I took my own spiritual disciplines more seriously. I became a better Christian because of my friendship with a Buddhist.
There were some aspects of Pilar’s faith, like emptiness and compassion, that connected readily with my own perspective. There were other aspects of her beliefs that will probably always feel foreign to me. It was not necessary for us to be the same (as in “all religions are basically the same”) in order for us to respect one another and to learn from one another.
Toward the end of my time in Sun Valley, I was asked to organize and facilitate a meeting between His Holiness the Dalai Lama and local religious leaders. It was one of the highlights of my ministry and a lovely culmination of my relationship with the Buddhists in Sun Valley.
When I arrived in Sacramento, one of the first people to see me was Lama Jinpa, the leader of the local Tibetan Buddhist community. Pilar had asked him to visit me. Lama Jinpa and I have met a few times and have discussed how we might be able to work together. Because of this new friendship, Trinity Cathedral has been invited to host two Tibetan monks who are coming to build a sand mandala in early December.
I think it is important that the mandala will be created in a Christian church. In our world with so much conflict and division, religious groups should model hospitality and inclusion. Not only is this an opportunity for hospitality, it is a chance for mutual enrichment. The mandala will depict the Medicine (or healing) Buddha. At Trinity Cathedral, we take praying for healing seriously. We have people at every Sunday service that pray for those who need special prayers. These prayers take place in the same part of the Cathedral where the Medicine Buddha mandala will be. The mandala , which is a kind of icon, will be placed next to a beautiful icon of the Trinity at the Cathedral. These are just a couple of obvious connections. Others will become manifest as we spend time together.
The mandala will be open to the public and it is my hope that many people will come to visit the Buddhist monks as they create their beautiful and deeply spiritual artwork.
Several years ago, while serving as a priest in Sun Valley, Idaho, a young woman visited me. She was to be married and she wondered if I would officiate at an Episcopal wedding service that included Tibetan Buddhist prayers. I was a little skeptical. Not because I didn’t think Buddhist prayers should be said at a Christian wedding. Rather I wanted to make sure Pilar, the young woman, was serious about her Buddhist practice. In my community Tibetan Buddhism had an exotic mystique and I wanted to make sure the prayers would be said with integrity rather than simply added to be chic.
As it turned out, Pilar was a devout Tibetan Buddhist and was very intentional in her spiritual practice. I did officiate at her wedding and she and I became good friends. She taught me Yoga. We began meditating together and after we prayed, we would teach each other about our different religious traditions. We opened our conversations to the wider community. Because of my friendship with Pilar, I took my own spiritual disciplines more seriously. I became a better Christian because of my friendship with a Buddhist.
There were some aspects of Pilar’s faith, like emptiness and compassion, that connected readily with my own perspective. There were other aspects of her beliefs that will probably always feel foreign to me. It was not necessary for us to be the same (as in “all religions are basically the same”) in order for us to respect one another and to learn from one another.
Toward the end of my time in Sun Valley, I was asked to organize and facilitate a meeting between His Holiness the Dalai Lama and local religious leaders. It was one of the highlights of my ministry and a lovely culmination of my relationship with the Buddhists in Sun Valley.
When I arrived in Sacramento, one of the first people to see me was Lama Jinpa, the leader of the local Tibetan Buddhist community. Pilar had asked him to visit me. Lama Jinpa and I have met a few times and have discussed how we might be able to work together. Because of this new friendship, Trinity Cathedral has been invited to host two Tibetan monks who are coming to build a sand mandala in early December.
I think it is important that the mandala will be created in a Christian church. In our world with so much conflict and division, religious groups should model hospitality and inclusion. Not only is this an opportunity for hospitality, it is a chance for mutual enrichment. The mandala will depict the Medicine (or healing) Buddha. At Trinity Cathedral, we take praying for healing seriously. We have people at every Sunday service that pray for those who need special prayers. These prayers take place in the same part of the Cathedral where the Medicine Buddha mandala will be. The mandala , which is a kind of icon, will be placed next to a beautiful icon of the Trinity at the Cathedral. These are just a couple of obvious connections. Others will become manifest as we spend time together.
The mandala will be open to the public and it is my hope that many people will come to visit the Buddhist monks as they create their beautiful and deeply spiritual artwork.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
first cousins, once removed
John came like Elijah through the wilderness, calling the people to turn away from falsehood, to turn back to their true allegiance, to Almighty God. He called them to repent: to start clean, to be washed in the waters of the Jordan as their spiritual forefathers had when first they walked into the land of the promise.
He called them. He was a “voice crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.’” He was the herald, the fore-runner: coming before, bearing glad tidings. The message he brought, to prepare the way of the Lord, is a message of impending – JOY.
And his joy is to be made complete in the coming of the Christ. “Are you the one we have been waiting for?” he asks Jesus; and the answer is YES! Look around you: see what is going on, what is happening. It is just beginning, but it is beginning to break through: the kingdom of heaven is at hand!
We look ahead this Sunday from the midst of Advent’s expectation to its fulfillment in the joy of Christmas. We light the pink candle. Today is “Gaudete Sunday”; “guadete” means REJOICE! Rejoice in the coming of the Savior. In the words of the 14th Century hymn:
Rejoice! Rejoice! Christ is born of the Virgin Mary: rejoice!
The time of grace has come for which we have prayed; let us devoutly sing songs of joy.
God is made man while nature wonders; the world is renewed by Christ the King.
Therefore let our assembly sing praises now; at this time of preparation, let it bless the Lord. Greetings to our King!
Rejoice! Rejoice! Christ is born of the Virgin Mary: rejoice!
And so we have a messenger who calls on us to prepare the way, to make room in our hearts and in our lives for the coming of the true King.
Let me read you a story. It is a story of some people, a boy and two girls, and some animals – beavers – who are traveling through a winter-bitten frozen landscape, running from the evil witch who has cast a spell on the land, where now it is “always winter and never Christmas!”
They run, and they hide, and they spend the night in a lonely cave, and even in their dreams they are pursued by the White Witch in her sledge drawn by tiny reindeer the color of snow.
They wake, and they do hear the bells of a sleigh. Mr. Beaver goes out to investigate. The children, and Mrs. Beaver, hear voices. They are alarmed. Is it the White Witch? Then comes Mr. Beaver’s reassuring voice:
[The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, by C. S. Lewis, chapter 10]
And so you see Santa Claus came to Narnia. And he brought presents: TOOLS NOT TOYS – to equip the humans for the tasks ahead.
John the Baptist, as he called on people to prepare the way, provided a gift of a different sort: a clearing out, a ‘re-set’, and a readiness to start over and start fresh. Then the gifts become real. They become necessary – as the Savior comes.
Jesus, when he approached, began with the working of healing: the blind see, the deaf hear, the lame walk, and this last: the poor are gladdened. They are glad because the Kingdom is coming, the reign of God on earth when all will be put to rights.
If you know your Narnia you know this is Aslan’s job: to overthrow the false reign of the White Witch, to set everything to rights, to release captives, to warm the frozen, to restore the lost, and to protect the innocent.
This is indeed the Day of the Lord that John proclaimed.
Son of Elizabeth, Mary’s cousin, John grew up as one set apart, with a duty to perform. He was the one to prepare the way: and to herald the coming of the Messiah.
And this is what Mary was expecting Jesus to do: in her magnificent song of expectation and of triumph, she proclaims the greatness of God, who looks with favor on his lowly servant, and who brings to her and through her – in the bearing of the Christ Child – the time of grace for which we have prayed.
Therefore let our assembly sing praises now at this time of preparation; let us bless the Lord: Greetings to our King!
Rejoice! Rejoice! Christ is born of the Virgin Mary; rejoice!
______________
C. S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (Macmillan, 1950) Chapter Ten: The Spell Begins to Break.
The Shorter New Oxford Book of Carols, edited by Hugh Keyte and Andrew Parrott (Oxford University Press, 1993), Carol 24, Gaudete!
David Adam, Clouds and Glory (SPCK, 2001) 3rd Sunday of Advent.
Isaiah 35:1-10, James 5:7-10, Matthew 11:2-11, Canticle 15
He called them. He was a “voice crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.’” He was the herald, the fore-runner: coming before, bearing glad tidings. The message he brought, to prepare the way of the Lord, is a message of impending – JOY.
And his joy is to be made complete in the coming of the Christ. “Are you the one we have been waiting for?” he asks Jesus; and the answer is YES! Look around you: see what is going on, what is happening. It is just beginning, but it is beginning to break through: the kingdom of heaven is at hand!
We look ahead this Sunday from the midst of Advent’s expectation to its fulfillment in the joy of Christmas. We light the pink candle. Today is “Gaudete Sunday”; “guadete” means REJOICE! Rejoice in the coming of the Savior. In the words of the 14th Century hymn:
Rejoice! Rejoice! Christ is born of the Virgin Mary: rejoice!
The time of grace has come for which we have prayed; let us devoutly sing songs of joy.
God is made man while nature wonders; the world is renewed by Christ the King.
Therefore let our assembly sing praises now; at this time of preparation, let it bless the Lord. Greetings to our King!
Rejoice! Rejoice! Christ is born of the Virgin Mary: rejoice!
And so we have a messenger who calls on us to prepare the way, to make room in our hearts and in our lives for the coming of the true King.
Let me read you a story. It is a story of some people, a boy and two girls, and some animals – beavers – who are traveling through a winter-bitten frozen landscape, running from the evil witch who has cast a spell on the land, where now it is “always winter and never Christmas!”
They run, and they hide, and they spend the night in a lonely cave, and even in their dreams they are pursued by the White Witch in her sledge drawn by tiny reindeer the color of snow.
They wake, and they do hear the bells of a sleigh. Mr. Beaver goes out to investigate. The children, and Mrs. Beaver, hear voices. They are alarmed. Is it the White Witch? Then comes Mr. Beaver’s reassuring voice:
[The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, by C. S. Lewis, chapter 10]
And so you see Santa Claus came to Narnia. And he brought presents: TOOLS NOT TOYS – to equip the humans for the tasks ahead.
John the Baptist, as he called on people to prepare the way, provided a gift of a different sort: a clearing out, a ‘re-set’, and a readiness to start over and start fresh. Then the gifts become real. They become necessary – as the Savior comes.
Jesus, when he approached, began with the working of healing: the blind see, the deaf hear, the lame walk, and this last: the poor are gladdened. They are glad because the Kingdom is coming, the reign of God on earth when all will be put to rights.
If you know your Narnia you know this is Aslan’s job: to overthrow the false reign of the White Witch, to set everything to rights, to release captives, to warm the frozen, to restore the lost, and to protect the innocent.
This is indeed the Day of the Lord that John proclaimed.
Son of Elizabeth, Mary’s cousin, John grew up as one set apart, with a duty to perform. He was the one to prepare the way: and to herald the coming of the Messiah.
And this is what Mary was expecting Jesus to do: in her magnificent song of expectation and of triumph, she proclaims the greatness of God, who looks with favor on his lowly servant, and who brings to her and through her – in the bearing of the Christ Child – the time of grace for which we have prayed.
Therefore let our assembly sing praises now at this time of preparation; let us bless the Lord: Greetings to our King!
Rejoice! Rejoice! Christ is born of the Virgin Mary; rejoice!
______________
C. S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (Macmillan, 1950) Chapter Ten: The Spell Begins to Break.
The Shorter New Oxford Book of Carols, edited by Hugh Keyte and Andrew Parrott (Oxford University Press, 1993), Carol 24, Gaudete!
David Adam, Clouds and Glory (SPCK, 2001) 3rd Sunday of Advent.
Isaiah 35:1-10, James 5:7-10, Matthew 11:2-11, Canticle 15
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Pilate slept in
Pilate slept in. Pontius Pilate had made a late night of it – in fact, he had turned in not long before dawn. He had washed his hands of the latest “Messiah” in the early hours of last Friday, called it good, and walked away. The nights since had been full, full of celebration – of a kind: reveling and drunkenness, debauchery and licentiousness, quarreling and jealousy, all the fleshly indulgence the apostle Paul so well describes. He was a creature of this night: the night at the end of the week. Pilate slept in.
It was early on the first day of the week, and it was still dark.
Across town, though, things were beginning to stir. Just quietly, a few women (Mary of Magdala, Mary the mother of James, Joanna, Salome, perhaps a few others) gathered together ointments and spices and made their way out of their houses and down through the pre-dawn streets, to pay their last respects to their friend, do their last duty to their master. And so they made their way to the tomb of Jesus son of Mary, Jesus of Nazareth. They thought they knew what they would find there.
It was dawn minus thirty. Day was coming; dawn was soon to break.
Imagine a desert landscape half an hour before dawn. A star glimmers in the east. As you move out into the open you see the moon, almost full, in the west, illumining the landscape – nearby trees, houses, hills, and the mountains beyond. The star in the east has a companion, a lesser satellite, still shining with brightness from the night before. There is a rustle here and there of night sounds. A campfire flickers: it can be rekindled.
The night is far along now, and the day is about to dawn.
We are waiting: you and I, together. We are waiting for the new dawn, the day of the Lord, the day when righteousness and peace will embrace, when swords will be beaten into plowshares and never will nation learn war anymore. We wait for the day when the poor are justified, and receive their due; when the widow and the orphan are protected.
And we are moving: we are not waiting passively, but actively, expectantly, we begin to move into this new day. Because something happened that morning as Pilate slept in; something that Salome and Mary and Joanna did not expect to happen. When they got to the tomb they found not the beginning of eternal night but the rising of a new day, the day of the Lord, just beginning, the day breaking into night’s dominion, bringing peace.
They ran to bring the news of this new day to all the disciples so that they could begin living in it, living into it, living it, as soon as possibly joy could allow.
And so we too are moving, running walking climbing, making our way into the world to let it know that Jesus is alive: the King has come home, the true King, the Messiah indeed, at last, is coming to his own – and his own shall know him and be set free.
He comes to us, this unexpected Jesus, in a form unsuspected: where we look for a king, a royal birth, we find a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. Where we look for a warrior we find a man of peace. Where we look for a master we find one who empties his self of all majesty and serves. Where we look for an answer, a question:
How are we to live in this new day, the day of the Lord? How are we to announce it?
Every year it comes back around to us, at the top of the year, as we face both backwards into the past – the Nativity of our Lord– and forwards into the future – the Return of the King; and yet at this present moment, when we stand on the precipice of time, we live in the moment of freedom: to find ourselves and define ourselves anew, as people of the passing night or as the people of God, Christ’s children, the Church.
How are we to live at this moment? Whiling away the waning hours of night? Or shall we begin, even now, in this moment, to live as children of the day?
To live as children of the day is to begin to live into God’s kingdom – to take the values Jesus has taught us and without waiting for a big sign in the sky – like the one that says, “Welcome to Las Vegas!” – to say, “Eternal life starts here”, to begin to live that way. O house of Jacob, come, let us walk in the light of the Lord!
We cannot be again what we once were, but we can become what we should be, can be, and are called to be. We cannot recapture lost time, but we can stay focused, keep together, and move forward in the name of Christ, into the redeeming of time: future, present, past – all are made new and whole in the light of Christ.
The ways of the Lord are so precious and true, so giving of life, that Isaiah predicts all nations will come seeking instruction, to learn to walk in the ways of God, and to be shown his pathways. God through the Holy Spirit – and through the Body of Christ – teaches us the way. It is a way that leads to justice, that finds peace, that sees an end to the strife between people and nations – a time so confident of its fruitfulness that the tools of war are no longer needed and can be turned into the tools of productive abundance.
We are his hands and his feet in the world, his voice and his ears, and we are gathered here in this place in this time to embody to the world his message of peace. As we bear forth his message – even in the absurd and timeless form of a baby – we bring the greatest force to bear that the world has ever known: and that force is the love of God.
Irresistible, it moves mountains; immemorial, it lasts forever; inconceivable, it is real… the most real thing of all.
This is the season of advent, of new beginnings, for you, for me, for all of us who live in this world – a new hope is dawning as surely as the light is rising in the East, beyond the mountains, unseen, but closer every moment.
We experience that new hope in our own lives, even in the midst of sorrow. Where Pilate would find only the end of night, the women of Jesus found a new dawn. Where the world runs out its string, there faith begins to take hold. Jesus is with us, even in the darkest hour, just before dawn. And he is our light.
And if we are transparent enough, the light of the love of the Lord shines through us, a beacon for others, beckoning them to join us in this new day.
O come, let us walk in the light of the Lord.
JRL+
The First Sunday of Advent: December 2, 2007
The Church of Saint Alban, Edmonds, Washington.
God, who ever comes to you, draw you to his love, draw you to his light, draw you to himself; and the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, be among you and remain with you always. Amen.
(David Adam, Clouds of Glory, Year A, Advent 1)
Isaiah 2:1-5, Psalm 122/Canticle 15, Romans 13:11-14, Matthew 24:36-44
It was early on the first day of the week, and it was still dark.
Across town, though, things were beginning to stir. Just quietly, a few women (Mary of Magdala, Mary the mother of James, Joanna, Salome, perhaps a few others) gathered together ointments and spices and made their way out of their houses and down through the pre-dawn streets, to pay their last respects to their friend, do their last duty to their master. And so they made their way to the tomb of Jesus son of Mary, Jesus of Nazareth. They thought they knew what they would find there.
It was dawn minus thirty. Day was coming; dawn was soon to break.
Imagine a desert landscape half an hour before dawn. A star glimmers in the east. As you move out into the open you see the moon, almost full, in the west, illumining the landscape – nearby trees, houses, hills, and the mountains beyond. The star in the east has a companion, a lesser satellite, still shining with brightness from the night before. There is a rustle here and there of night sounds. A campfire flickers: it can be rekindled.
The night is far along now, and the day is about to dawn.
We are waiting: you and I, together. We are waiting for the new dawn, the day of the Lord, the day when righteousness and peace will embrace, when swords will be beaten into plowshares and never will nation learn war anymore. We wait for the day when the poor are justified, and receive their due; when the widow and the orphan are protected.
And we are moving: we are not waiting passively, but actively, expectantly, we begin to move into this new day. Because something happened that morning as Pilate slept in; something that Salome and Mary and Joanna did not expect to happen. When they got to the tomb they found not the beginning of eternal night but the rising of a new day, the day of the Lord, just beginning, the day breaking into night’s dominion, bringing peace.
They ran to bring the news of this new day to all the disciples so that they could begin living in it, living into it, living it, as soon as possibly joy could allow.
And so we too are moving, running walking climbing, making our way into the world to let it know that Jesus is alive: the King has come home, the true King, the Messiah indeed, at last, is coming to his own – and his own shall know him and be set free.
He comes to us, this unexpected Jesus, in a form unsuspected: where we look for a king, a royal birth, we find a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. Where we look for a warrior we find a man of peace. Where we look for a master we find one who empties his self of all majesty and serves. Where we look for an answer, a question:
How are we to live in this new day, the day of the Lord? How are we to announce it?
Every year it comes back around to us, at the top of the year, as we face both backwards into the past – the Nativity of our Lord– and forwards into the future – the Return of the King; and yet at this present moment, when we stand on the precipice of time, we live in the moment of freedom: to find ourselves and define ourselves anew, as people of the passing night or as the people of God, Christ’s children, the Church.
How are we to live at this moment? Whiling away the waning hours of night? Or shall we begin, even now, in this moment, to live as children of the day?
To live as children of the day is to begin to live into God’s kingdom – to take the values Jesus has taught us and without waiting for a big sign in the sky – like the one that says, “Welcome to Las Vegas!” – to say, “Eternal life starts here”, to begin to live that way. O house of Jacob, come, let us walk in the light of the Lord!
We cannot be again what we once were, but we can become what we should be, can be, and are called to be. We cannot recapture lost time, but we can stay focused, keep together, and move forward in the name of Christ, into the redeeming of time: future, present, past – all are made new and whole in the light of Christ.
The ways of the Lord are so precious and true, so giving of life, that Isaiah predicts all nations will come seeking instruction, to learn to walk in the ways of God, and to be shown his pathways. God through the Holy Spirit – and through the Body of Christ – teaches us the way. It is a way that leads to justice, that finds peace, that sees an end to the strife between people and nations – a time so confident of its fruitfulness that the tools of war are no longer needed and can be turned into the tools of productive abundance.
We are his hands and his feet in the world, his voice and his ears, and we are gathered here in this place in this time to embody to the world his message of peace. As we bear forth his message – even in the absurd and timeless form of a baby – we bring the greatest force to bear that the world has ever known: and that force is the love of God.
Irresistible, it moves mountains; immemorial, it lasts forever; inconceivable, it is real… the most real thing of all.
This is the season of advent, of new beginnings, for you, for me, for all of us who live in this world – a new hope is dawning as surely as the light is rising in the East, beyond the mountains, unseen, but closer every moment.
We experience that new hope in our own lives, even in the midst of sorrow. Where Pilate would find only the end of night, the women of Jesus found a new dawn. Where the world runs out its string, there faith begins to take hold. Jesus is with us, even in the darkest hour, just before dawn. And he is our light.
And if we are transparent enough, the light of the love of the Lord shines through us, a beacon for others, beckoning them to join us in this new day.
O come, let us walk in the light of the Lord.
JRL+
The First Sunday of Advent: December 2, 2007
The Church of Saint Alban, Edmonds, Washington.
God, who ever comes to you, draw you to his love, draw you to his light, draw you to himself; and the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, be among you and remain with you always. Amen.
(David Adam, Clouds of Glory, Year A, Advent 1)
Isaiah 2:1-5, Psalm 122/Canticle 15, Romans 13:11-14, Matthew 24:36-44
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