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"Hope in the Mess"
Written by the Reverend Canon Caleb J. Lee President of the Standing Committee of the Diocese of South Carolina It is spring. There is no doubt. I know this because I have been to Lowes Home Improvement at least twice in the past week (with proper social distancing of course). I see the good Lord quite a bit when I work in the garden. I guess that is fitting, as we will soon remember that on the day of resurrection Jesus is mistaken for the gardener. But we are not there yet. We are still in the mess of Lent. The world is often a messy place, but especially now as fear and isolation try to win out over faith and community. Lent has taken on a whole new meaning this year. Regardless of how we perceive our world, Jesus has overcome it. He has come into the messiness of this world, and lived in it with us, died in it with is, and has been raised in it. He has overcome the mess. I am reminded of my garden and how I never properly clean it up after the season. I often just let nature take its course. Leaves blow in it and cover the fertile soil. My garden becomes a mess quite quickly without a gardener. But spring comes every year and despite my efforts or lack thereof, green shoots pop up through the mess of leaves and dead matter I have left there. That is grace. Yesterday’s readings for the Fifth Sunday in Lent provided great examples of God’s power and favor and regard for us, despite our complete inability to get ourselves out of impossible situations (AKA messes). In Ezekiel’s Valley of Dry Bones we are reminded that the people of God are in exile. They are cut off from their homeland. They are in a mess. They have little control over their lives and yet God promises through Ezekiel’s prophecy that they will live once again. Those old dead bones will live! God does not wait for us to get it together but comes to our rescue in the midst of the mess. Now we turn to the mess of grief found in Mary and Martha at the death of their dear brother Lazarus. Jesus does not wait for Mary and Martha to get themselves together before helping them. No. Jesus comes to them in their lowest of lows. But there is one who is even lower. Poor Lazarus is dead. Jesus comes to him and calls him out of the mess of death. The mess of a few days of decomposition. Past the point of death, Jesus calls Lazarus out of that tomb when he is past the point of no return. Life is messy. We are messy. The world is messy. We are in a mess with this pandemic. But being with us in the mess is Jesus’ cup of tea! Jesus is our hope in the mess. That “cup of tea” bit is a tribute to Robert Farrar Capon. Here is one of my favorite quotes from him: “Trust him. And when you have done that, you are living the life of grace. No matter what happens to you in the course of that trusting – no matter how many waverings you may have, no matter how many suspicions that you have bought a poke with no pig in it, no matter how much heaviness and sadness your lapses, vices, indispositions, and bratty whining may cause you – you believe simply that Somebody Else, by his death and resurrection, has made it all right, and you just say thank you and shut up. The whole slop-closet full of mildewed performances (which is all you have to offer) is simply your death; it is Jesus who is your life. If he refused to condemn you because your works were rotten, he certainly isn’t going to flunk you because your faith isn’t so hot. You can fail utterly, therefore, and still live the life of grace. You can fold up spiritually, morally, or intellectually and still be safe. Because at the very worst, all you can be is dead – and for him who is the Resurrection and the Life, that just makes you his cup of tea.” Peace in the mess, Caleb+
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"Our Hope and Strength"
Written by the Right Reverend Henry N. Parsley, Jr., Visiting Bishop of the Diocese of South Carolina God is our hope and strength, a very present help in trouble. (Psalm 46:1) The psalms are some of the Bible’s most valuable literature. They plumb the depths of the human spirit and the all too real ups and downs of mortal life. They speak with profound honesty of struggle, lamentation, hope, darkness, and light, always with an abiding trust in God’s loving kindness. The 46th Psalm speaks to me especially as we navigate the uncharted waters of the novel coronavirus. It describes the perilous times that we must sometimes endure, and it affirms a living faith that is ever ancient and ever new. The psalmist believes that God is not just remote in the heavenly realm but “very present,” especially when the going is tough. Its promise is not that God will always remove trouble from us. Its promise is that God will always be with us in it, giving us the courage and hope to persevere. "Therefore,” the psalmist goes on, “we will not fear, though the earth be moved, and though the mountains be toppled into the depths of the sea.” This means, as we say in the coastal south, “come hell or high water.” We are getting a strong dose of that at the moment. After years of wrestling, I have come to believe that the only real medicine for fear is faith—the kind of faith that means trusting in God and in a power beyond ourselves that is given. Faith doesn’t miraculously make fear go away. It is what holds us in the midst of it, holding us in the confidence that God is mysteriously present and doing for us “better things than we can desire or pray for,” as our Prayer Book petition puts it. Henri Nouwen once compared faith to the art of trapeze in the circus. He learned that when the trapeze artist lets go of one bar and flies through the empty air, she cannot catch the person swinging toward her on the other bar. She has to let the catcher catch her. Trusting God is like that, Nouwen said. As we step out in faith, into the empty air, we have to let God catch us. And he said, “God has good hands.” The 46th Psalm concludes: Be still then, and know that I am God. The God of hosts is with us; The God of Jacob is our refuge. “Be still”— that is the spiritual way echoed across the scriptures and the lives of the saints. Stillness is the seedbed of faith. It comes when we sit in intentional silence, measure our breath, and quiet our hearts. Here is where we can touch what T.S. Eliot called the “stillpoint of the turning world.” It’s where we realize that God is really present in the silence and that our lives are enfolded in holy love. In such stillness, where faith is reborn, we are given the ability to get up and do what has to be done, to live beyond our fear. Because God is the catcher. Because God is working his purpose out for the world, “as year succeeds to year.” Because God has given us the wisdom and gumption to navigate the storms of life. It has been said that the essence of the Biblical faith is the inability to ever stop hoping. Because God is our hope and strength. Where there is hope there is life. As another psalm says, “Weeping may spend the night; but joy comes in the morning.” The going is tough, but in time we will get though the novel coronavirus crisis. God has given us the intellect and industry to solve the science of it, the strength to weather the storm, and the love to take care of one another as we journey forward. Jesus affirmed the faith of the psalmist when he said, “In the world you will have tribulation; but be of good cheer, for I have overcome the world.” Let that good cheer be among us, in spite of it all. Henry Nutt Parsley, Jr.
Pour your grace into our hearts, O Lord, that we who have known the incarnation of your Son Jesus Christ, announced by an angel to the Virgin Mary, may his cross and passion be brought to the glory of his resurrection; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.
Never before has the Feast of the Annunciation seemed more poignant—the proclamation of the incarnation by the Angel Gabriel to the Virgin Mary—the very Word of God, becoming flesh and dwelling among us—the Light shining through the darkness—yet, amidst the backdrop of the cross. This past weekend, The Very Reverend Dr. Robert Willis, Dean of Canterbury, was to have led a Diocesan Lenten Quiet Day on Saturday for us in the Diocese of South Carolina. On Sunday, he was slated to preach at Grace Church Cathedral; but the Coronavirus pandemic kept him in Canterbury. Dean Willis is a writer of hymns, as is our own Dean Michael Wright. Below is one of Dean Willis’s hymns, fitting for our current day, “Let Us Light a Candle”—as well as a link to a recording of the hymn from Canterbury Cathedral. Peace and blessings to you, Callie "Let Us Light a Candle" (click for video) In a world where people walk in darkness Let us turn our faces to the light, To the light of God revealed in Jesus, To the Daystar scattering our night. For the light is stronger than the darkness And the day will overcome the night. Though the shadows linger all around us, Let us turn our faces to the light. In a world where suff'ring of the helpless Casts a shadow all along the way, Let us bear the Cross of Christ with gladness And proclaim the dawning of the day. For the light is stronger than the darkness And the day will overcome the night. Though the shadows linger all around us, Let us turn our faces to the light. Let us light a candle in the darkness, In the face of death, a sign of life. As a sign of hope where all seems hopeless, As a sign of peace in place of strife. For the light is stronger than the darkness And the day will over come the night. Though the shadows linger all around us, Let us turn our faces to the light. -Robert Willis Tune: Richard Shephard (See Hymn 476 in Common Praise) "The Cross"
Written by the Reverend Canon Caleb J. Lee, President of the Standing Committee for the Diocese of South Carolina We adore you O Christ and we bless you. Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world. It has been the practice of the Grace clergy this past week to walk and pray the Stations of the Cross every day at noon. I cannot tell you how fruitful this has been for my spiritual life. I think the other Grace clergy would tell you the same. The stations are on the perimeter of the campus. It has been my task to set out the small tile crosses that mark the stations. On the first day the bell tolled and we began our opening prayers before heading outside to the first station. The crucifer, carrying the large cross shrouded in purple, looked at me with a bit of hesitation. In his face I saw the question he was thinking: “Which way do I go?” I nodded my head to the left and said, “Look for the cross along the way.” We adore you O Christ and we bless you. Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world. No other symbol carries the full weight of the human experience like the cross. The cross represents darkness and light, sadness and joy, death and life, brokenness and belovedness, despair and hope. I can say without hesitation that I felt all of these things this week. This past week the cross has played a central role in our lives. Fun fact: the cross always plays a central role in our lives. However, sometimes we can see the cross more clearly and feel its weight and benefits more acutely. September 11th and the aftermath of that day was certainly one of those times when one was able to experience the cross in all of its power. In death and in life. In despair and hope. In darkness and in light. We adore you O Christ and we bless you. Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world. This past week, I have seen the cross in the fear and the doubt and uncertainty that infects us and those we love as the news changes by the hour. I have seen the cross in the hoarding of resources and in the empty shelves at supermarkets. I have seen the cross in the pictures of the sick on gurneys. The cross came to mind as I heard of the lack of resources for our medical professionals. We adore you O Christ and we bless you. Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world. As much as the cross is about death and despair, that same cross is also about life and hope. To juxtapose the darkness and to overcome it, the light and life of the cross shines in radiant splendor. I have been uplifted by all the crosses donning the altars of my online heroes, who have given me and many a word of hope and prayer in a time of uncertainty. I have seen the hope of the cross in our healthcare professionals who are emptying themselves, pouring themselves out, for the sake of the neighbor and expressing in human form, the one way and unconditional love of Jesus. I have seen the love of the cross in all of the grocery store workers, who are likely getting paid minimum wage and risking their own health so that you and I can have access to food. I have experienced people coming together in solidarity, finding ways to help. I could go on and on. The radiance of the cross is unrivaled. However, to experience the light, we have to know the darkness. We adore you O Christ and we bless you. Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world. As people of faith, we can rest in the assurance that our Lord Jesus Christ was lifted high upon the cross so that we and the whole world might come within the reach of his saving embrace. As we move forward together into these unprecedented times, look for the cross along the way. God’s Peace, Caleb+ Written by the Right Reverend Henry N. Parsley, Jr.,
Visiting Bishop of the Diocese of South Carolina Last Sunday, under the shadow of the COVID-19 pandemic, Becky and I worshipped virtually in an empty cathedral. It was a surprising and moving experience. Aside from the clergy, organist, and four singers the Washington National Cathedral was entirely empty. The service was closed to congregants, and live streamed, in order to help stem the spread of the virus. The words and music were surrounded by a vast emptiness, which was at once unsettling and profound. It is not easy for Episcopalians to close our churches for Sunday worship. We cherish our weekly gathering together to give thanks, to be sacramentally and homiletically nourished, to greet one another. But last week it was the very emptiness of the cathedral that seemed eloquently to proclaim the love and care of God for the world. Rather than risk bringing people together in this challenging moment, the church closed its doors. In a strange way this was in itself a sermon. A profound act of self-emptying. It is the belief of Christian people that Jesus Christ, the Son of God, emptied himself by becoming one of us and giving up his life on the cross. God showed the full extent of the divine love for the world in this absolute self-giving. Theologians call this kenosis, the generous, sacrificial pouring out of God’s own life for us. Christ “emptied himself, taking the form of a servant, being born in human likeness…and became obedient to the point of death - even death on a cross,” Paul wrote. W.H. Vanstone beautifully captured this once in a poem: Drained is love in making full; Bound in setting others free; Poor in making many rich; Weak in giving power to be. Therefore he who shows us God Helpless hangs upon the tree; And the nails and crown of thorns Tell of what God’s love must be. The cross stands in the midst of our churches to remind us of this great truth. But last Sunday, ironically, it was the intentionally empty cathedral that proclaimed it, as the church hollowed itself for a moment in the interest of the well-being of others. When the camera played over the quiet spaces and bright windows surrounding a thousand empty seats there was a palpable feeling of the divine presence pouring selfless grace and hope into the world. The empty cathedral was actually full of love. In these anxious days this is a dose of soul medicine. As we react to the threat of the virus, it is easy for us to think anxiously of ourselves and our safety. Already the media is filled with stories of people hoarding supplies, selling stock to protect investments, fiercely guarding their interests. Certainly self care is important and in its proper place contributes to the commonweal. But a time like this calls us to more. It urges us to think beyond ourselves and act for others, not doing certain things for the greater good. May the holy emptiness of the cathedral remind us of our high calling as human beings, the high calling of sacrifice for one another. We will get though this ordeal as we work together, doing and not doing as needed to limit the virus’ spread. There may be hard days ahead. We will be afraid at times. Let us pray without ceasing that our fear does not conquer our love. When it is over may we be able to hold our heads high, because we will have done our best, in a difficult time, to empty ourselves for each other and the common good. That is what love does. A meditation offered by The Venerable Calhoun Walpole, Archdeacon of the Diocese of South Carolina
The other day, David Brooks wrote a column about the 1918 Spanish flu pandemic. During that time in certain cities, health care workers would plead for people to step up and care for the sick, including thousands of children. He notes that few stepped forward to care for them—for fear of contracting the disease. Brooks goes on to point out that one of the truly perplexing features of the 1918 pandemic was that when it was over people didn’t talk about it. Very few books were written about it. Yet, roughly 675,000 Americans died. Maybe, Brooks posits, it is because people did not like whom they had become during the pandemic. The cultural effect, after the death of those hundreds of thousands, was one of disillusionment and fatigue and spiritual lethargy. Jesus says: “If you want to save your life you will lose it. If you lose your life for my sake and the sake of the gospel you will find it.” It is the Christian paradox. Jesus went to the cross--not so that we don’t have to—he went to the cross and asks us to meet him there. It is Lent, the season in which we have the special privilege of denying ourselves and taking up our cross and following Christ. Recently, my father was telling me about being a young boy in the 1940s during a local polio outbreak when people were advised to stay home. The disease had indeed hit close to home: A fellow parishioner, a teenager, had contracted polio while at Camp St. Christopher. (The young man, Fred Sosnowski, would go on to become a faithful priest in Christ’s Church. He was a deep kindness and support to me, personally, early in my ministry, and his wife was the chair of my parish discernment committee.) My father remembers Morning and Evening Prayer at home for a season. (It is interesting to me: it was my grandmother who led the liturgies at home during this time and at church she taught the parish confirmation class for years—but it was my grandfather whom I remember in prayer—the indelible image of him kneeling at his bedside in his bed clothes—saying his prayers before turning in for the night. Every night, it was his ritual.) My father said he did not remember the details of the Morning and Evening Prayer services his mother led in their home. Instead, what he remembers are the candles she lighted. He remembered not the darkness or the fear—he remembered the light—the hope illumined by the light of the candles—the light of Christ—shining through the all darkness and fear—the light always outshining the darkness. Brooks goes on to note that during the 1918 flu it was the health care workers who found their life—even if they lost their life—in service to others. We the Church are also a hospital—dispensing not antibiotics or performing surgeries on the body—but rather dispensing living water for thirsts too deep for words—and providing the space—even if now, for a season, from a distance—for us all to bring whatever scars or pain or wounds too powerful to name—to our Lord Jesus. As a priest, often times when I visit with people who are ailing physically—what they want to talk about is not their physical predicament but rather the worries and preoccupations they have for their loved ones; or they want to discuss matters of faith—all of which comes down to the root question we hear in the passage from Exodus: “Is the Lord among us or not?” That is, can I really trust this Lord when I am so unsure of the road ahead? Will our Lord be there through it all, no matter what? Can I trust him—even through pandemic and panic? Yes, you can trust our Lord Jesus. Yes, he will be there. Yes, he is there. He is here, and with you always. No matter what. |
MeditationsDuring the uncertain times created by the COVID-19 Coronavirus pandemic in March 2020, leadership of the diocese will send out regular meditations on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays for the next while as we all adjust to a new chapter of living and being the Church. Archives
May 2020
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