I would have welcomed

I would have welcomed your hand in mine
as I crossed 3rd and 29th to get to my car.
Strains of our friend Charlie's banjo and his voice
in my ear.
Okra, figs, pears and blueberries
in my bag,
and vibrant oranges and pinks of zinnias and sunflowers
in my hands.

I wanted you nearer.
I imagined your height,
your side,
your face,
your gait,
your steel blue eyes.

Your affection for this street,
these farmers,
this market,
this food,
this me.

I would have welcomed your hand in mine.

the priesthood

When Steve was excommunicated he found his way to a little church in Homewood.  It was funny because Steve landed there because of a  friend who was a priest as well as  a realtor. We used to call those people 'tentmakers' in our other life.   Steve saw this man as a mentor and Mike's love for Steve healed him in many ways.

I had my own journey to this very same parish.  During my months of separation and divorce I found solace in a work called 'The Catechesis of the Good Shepherd.'  This is a spiritual formation way for children but it became a way for me to 'become like a little child' again and unlearn things I had heard falsely and relearn things that were true.  At the time that I was going through these classes there were only 2 churches in Birmingham with Atriums.  Now there are many others but at that point, I chose to attend one of the churches with the Atrium and All Saints was the one I chose.

Now when I walk in our church each Sunday I relive all of our most formative moments together - Steve's ministry of reconciliation, our confirmation, our marriage, his funeral, our weekly eucharists.  Each time.  The sanctuary feels dense to me.  Layered.  Full.  I have heard that the sanctuary is built like a ship, to hold us, like an ark.  Until we are taken to the other side.

A few Sundays ago I was sitting next to my mother.  We listened parallel to the sermon that I am going to post here.  Our home life and our growing up years offered many moments for despair or worry, but honestly, I do not remember that ever being a part of my upbringing.  I whispered to her, 'You did not leave me a legacy of worry, did you?' and she said, 'No, I do not know why, but I am not a worrier.' People who know my mother are always struck by how steady and faithful and kind and generous she is. She is an avid reader, a diligent gardener, constant friend and indulgent grandmother. I have to assume that her inner life has been so fed and nurtured that she has not had much need to scramble or be frenetic in her outer one.

 I have a quote by my sink that says, "Mother's love is peace.  It need not be acquired, it need not be deserved.'  Erich Fromm.    The invisible church that Steve often spoke of, that he participated in, is historically called our mother because it nourishes and protects the believer.  I can honestly say that our particular, visible church is doing that as well.

I asked our priest, Glenda, if I could post her sermon here because it reminded me of one Steve could have preached.  I remember sermons where Steve would talk about one's 'midnight faith.'  To imagine the kind of fear Steve faced regularly and then later when making the choices he did,  coupled with the faith he expressed in his ability to die well is nourishing for those of us who wait.

Proper 7: yr. B, Mark 4: 35-41                  Glenda Curry                 June 24, 2012

            I read a description of a painting by Rembrandt, called the Storm on the Sea of Galilee.  I found a picture on the trusty internet and it’s extraordinary.  The artist paints the faces of the disciples in their storm battered boat so clearly that I could feel their panic.  The little boat is perched on the top crest of a giant wave; its sail and lines are torn loose from the riggings, flapping wildly in the wind.  Five disciples are struggling to catch the torn sail, desperately holding onto the mast.  The rest are on their knees in the boat, huddled around Jesus, absolutely terrified for their lives, one is even seasick over the side. Some are frantically shaking Jesus, trying to wake him.  Jesus’ calm expression seems to ask, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”

            You can count fourteen people in the picture, 12 disciples and Jesus, and the artist himself.  Rembrandt paints himself in the boat, clutching one of the broken lines, holding his head in terror.  It’s as if he’s saying when it comes to faith and fear, we’re all in the same boat.

            I like to think of myself as faithful, rather than fearful.  But my life has taught me that faith and fear can coexist.  I came from a family that liked to worry.  My mom was a chronic, professional worrier and I learned how to worry at her knee.  Of course, she had some things worth worrying about.  Two children to feed, no husband, no extended family help.   And we didn’t talk about our feelings, so I think worrying was how we compensated.   For years my fears would wake me at night, my heart would race and I’d tremble.  Now my fear mostly creeps in when the house gets quiet and nags, like a tired baby whining for my attention.

            There’s a story about a little by traveling by train with his parents. They were going to sleep in a Pullman car, the kind with berths enclosed by curtains.  The mother tucked the little boy in an upper berth, assuring him that Mommy and Daddy were sleeping in the berth just below his.  She said to her son, “Now don’t worry.  Mommy’s here and Daddy’s here and God is here.” 

            As  soon as the mother closed the curtains on her son’t berth, she heard his little voice ask, “Mommy, are you still here?”  “Yes, dear.” answered his mother.  “Is Daddy still here?”  The mother answered, “Yes, dear.”  “Is God still here?”  She answered, “Yes dear.”.  

            Five minutes later it was the same thing and then over and over, on through the night, until about one o’clock, when the little voice asked for the thousandth time “Mommy, are you still here?” Suddenly a great, gruff voice roared from the other end of the Pullman car, “yes, your mother’s here.  Your Daddy’s here.  Now shut up and go to sleep.”  There was a moment of silence and then the little voice asked, “Mommy, was that God?” 

            When I fall prey to worry and fear, I sometimes wish God would tell my worry to shut up and go to sleep.  In today’s gospel, the disciples experience not just worry, but terror.  Most of us know what it’s like to be scared.  There’s plenty in our world to fear.  We’ve experienced all kinds of fear; from nagging worry to maybe full-fledged panic.  Fear can save our lives and keep us out of trouble.  But too much fear can paralyze and take our lives away.

            Mark tells us a story that the Hebrew people of his day would easily understand. For them, the sea, like life was scary.  The prophet Daniel wrote that the sea was filled with monsters and predicted the Messiah would come and send monsters away.  But Creation is good, even though the sea is stormy one minute and calm the next.  Above all they believed God was in charge.

            Mark’s listeners would hear echoes of Jonah, who was caught in a storm when he tried to run away from God and the sea became calm only when sailors threw Jonah overboard and he surrendered to God’s command. 

            Or they’d remember the story of God parting the Red Sea to save his people.    When they heard this gospel, they’d realize the kingdom of God was coming near in Jesus.  Jesus doesn’t run away from God like Jonah instead He acts like the Messiah, calming the stormy sea.

              In the worldview of disciples any kind of trouble was due to demonic forces, servants of the evil one.  When that storm came out of nowhere, punishing them with wind, lightning, and waves, they probably thought they were being attacked by demons.  So they weren’t just afraid of dying.   They were afraid of falling into the hands of the evil one. 

             And Jesus is so confident of God’s care, he falls asleep while the storm rages, trusting God will make all things right.  God is in charge and God is good.  Now God is with us, in the flesh, right in our boat.  

            The truth is no matter how carefully we live, and believe me, I’ve tried to be careful, life is stormy even for God’s most faithful people. 

            I once prayed with parents of a little boy who fell from a tree to be healed even when doctors said his wounds were fatal.  Did God not hear that prayer?  It’s natural to wonder, “does God really care. Is God asleep?”  

            I believe God did hear their prayer.   Sometimes when I cry out to God, with my best prayer, the fearful situation remains.   Yet, I do believe in miracles, especially the ones in the Bible.  I have seen miracles, intense manifestations of grace, in people’s lives too.  I think we should pray for exactly what we want because that’s part of honest relationship with God.

             Sometimes we pray with words and sometimes without.   St. Paul tells us many times, we are God’s children and the Spirit prays for us sometimes, in sighs too deep for words.   Faith isn’t the conviction that God will turn things in my favor every time I ask.  I haven’t seen God intervene on anyone’s behalf predictably and regularly on request.  Miracles are mysterious and unpredictable by definition.  Prayer has many purposes and forms and grace is almost always a surprise. 

            Scripture tells us in Jesus, God has already been every place we will ever go.  In Gesthemane, in doubt, loved by his friends, hated by enemies, abandoned, rejected, suffering in innocence and just like the forces of evil surround the boat they’re in just now, those same forces will storm around a cross where Jesus no doubt will wonder again, “Why are you afraid, don’t you have faith?”   Yet the storm is calmed and the tomb will be empty.  The quality of the disciples’ faith doesn’t stop Jesus from saving them.

            This story helped me see two kinds of fear.   First, there’s the fear that God is absent and they say, “Don’t you care that we are perishing”.  Someone called that the “Good Friday” fear.   Then they wake Jesus and cry out to him and their fear seems to change.   After the storm is stilled, our translation says the disciples experience “awe”.   The translation police say ‘awe’ isn’t strong enough.   Better translation is “They feared a great fear”.  Someone calls that the “Easter fear”.   When the women find the tomb empty and encounter the angel, they have that kind of fear.   It makes sense that realizing we are in the hands of Almighty God calls for some Easter fear.   That seems appropriate and real. 

            One interesting speculation about today’s story says, when Jesus says, “Peace be still”, maybe he’s not just talking to the waves.  Maybe he’s saying to the disciples, “Hush, get hold of yourselves.”  And they did what he said. 

            The miracle wasn’t only Jesus calming the storm, but Jesus calming the disciples.  I’ve seen that happen.  When we find ourselves walking through storms with grace and peace beyond our ability.   An old hymn says, “Sometimes he calms the storm with a whispered peace be still.  He can settle any sea, but it doesn’t mean he will.  Sometimes he holds us close and lets the wind and waves go wild.  Sometimes he calms the storm and other times he calms his child.” 

            I read about a man and wife who were passengers in a small plane in trouble. As they were about to make an emergency the couple joined hands and said this prayer: “The light of God surrounds us.  The love of God enfolds us.  The power of God protects us. The presence of God watches over us.   Wherever we are, God is.”

            As they landed the man said, the prayer wasn’t meant to say that everything would turn out all right. What they meant to say was that they knew they were in God’s care, whether they lived or died.  Jesus asks God to spare him from the cross.  Instead God gave him the strength to endure it.

            This morning we sit in the Nave.   The name comes from the Latin word for ship.  The beams in our ceiling resemble like the beams the beams in the bow of a great ship.    So when it comes to our faith and following Jesus, you can say we are literally all in the same boat. We need each other.   As we tell our children in the atrium, that’s the plan of God.  The disciples didn’t confront their fear or awe alone.  God gave them each other and God’s grace softened terror into a graceful faith. 

            Each week as the Body of Christ we share bread, wine and prayers to remind each other to trust God when storms hit.  Loving through grief, hurt, fear and joy.  Just as Jesus was with the disciples, calming the storm, calming them, God is with us and God is for us.  Whatever we face, God’s grace is working this day, stilling our fears and making us new creations.  Amen 

                       

The Reverend Glenda Curry

June 24, 2012

Proper 7 year B

              

It is almost time.....

to close this blog.

I feel it.

The parts of this story that I don't mind making public are dwindling to a trickle.  The relief in being able to bear it, to know we have survived a year without him and most likely will another is a strengthening knowing.

I have a few posts I have started but never finished left in the queue.  I think I will tend to them in the next weeks or so and then find a way to consider this place sealed.

A dear friend sent me this reading in honor of the one year mark:

"Easter is a feast, and it is as the feast of freedom that it is celebrated.  For with Easter begins the laughter of the redeemed, the dance of the liberated and the creative play of fantasy.  From time immemorial Easter hymns have celebrated the victory of life by laughing at death, mocking at hell, and ridiculing the mighty ones who spread fear and terror around them.

Easter is the feast of freedom.  It makes the life which it touches a festal life.  'The risen Christ makes life a perpetual feast,' said Athanasius.  But can the whole of life really be a feast?  Even life's dark side - death, guilt, senseless suffering?  I think it can.  Once we realize that the giver of this feast is the outcast suffering, crucified Son of Man, from  Nazareth, then every 'no' is absorbed into this profound 'yes,' and is swallowed up in its victory.

Easter is at one and the same time God's protest against death, and the feast of freedom from death.  Anyone who fails to hold these two things together has failed to understand teh resurrection of the Christ who was crucified.  Resistance is the protest of those who hope, and the hope is the feast of the people who resist. "  Jurgen Moltmann

from steve's book of hours

I opened our book of hours to read this morning, this dawn before the anniversary dawn and found these words in steve's handwriting, and these phrases underlined.

"Whom have i in heaven but you?  and having you I desire nothing on earth."

I remember this prayer. writes Steve.


And then the prayer is marked:  "Pour your grace into my heart, O Lord, that I who have known the incarnation of your Son Jesus Christ, announced by an angel to the  Virgin Mary, may by 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 for ever.  Amen.

a poem by Lynn Ungar

Picking Blackberries

What will you give for a taste
of summer's last sweetness?
This jewelled crown of thorns
rings every path and highway,

No use pretending  you
have not heard sweet tempatation
chatter through the vines - -
taste, eat

Put your hand in the thorns
and come out dripping juice,
king's purple spread from
hand to tongue.

Reach gently,
or you will find your thumb
full of thorns, and your pail
filled with unbearable tartness.

Reach gently, but reach
The sweetest berries hide
toward the inside, hidden
beneath leaves barbed like critics.

Balance, if you must, precariously,
held by will and longing form
the net of thorns.  If you want
the ripest fruit, relinquish safety.

Guard yourself only with these words:
Peril, abundance
whispered like a prayer
through purple lips.

calm distress

Many of my friends and most of my children lean towards  agnosticism much of the time.  I too have my moments of detachment from the idea of God or invisible things.  When i would rush to Steve with the latest surge of familial questioning he would simply answer, 'It's all true, Melanie, it really is.'  I knew it was for me, but Steve had the particular capacity of believing it for others too.  Maybe that is what a pastor really is, really does.

My good friend sent me this hymn this morning.
Another one for us to live by:

If death my friend and me divide,
Thou dost not, Lord, my sorrow chide,
Or frown my tears to see;
Restrained from passionate excess,
Thou bidst me mourn in calm distress
For them that rest in Thee.

I feel a strong immortal hope,
Which bears my mournful spirit up
Beneath its mountain load;
Redeemed from death, and grief, and pain,
I soon shall find my friend again
Within the arms of God.

Pass a few fleeting moments more
And death the blessing shall restore
Which death has snatched away;
For me Thou wilt the summons send,
And give me back my parted friend
In that eternal day. 



charles wesley

my mother always says....

that your children start where you end.  I already see how true this is, how much more my children are than I am, but containing seeds of things i had hoped I would be in them.  It is a huge relief.  A sense of rest follows when you see that your children can write accomplished research papers, travel the world and make meaningful friendships, endure hardship with grace and wisdom, be open to others in true relationship.

I remember when Josh and AbbyWesterhold came over on a Sunday afternoon,  early in the knowledge of cancer time.  When we crawled into bed that night after their visit Steve was just so full and animated.  He said what a relief it was that they were doing what they were doing - that a part of him could rest because Josh would be giving his life for urban renewal, which was such a huge passion of Steve's.  I later imagined how that is true of all of his closest friends, doing work or making music or caring for others in ways that Steve would if he was in their place.  I imagine his delight in hearing about it all.

Do not all of us who he loved bear seeds of ideas he loved inside of us?

Margaret has just returned from Italy, after three months away.  Mary danced last weekend, bearing a wounded toe without a hint of complaint or evidence.  Madeleine graduated from college yesterday in a picture perfect atmosphere of small college elegance.  Now we enter the week of remembering.  Loving Steve and bearing his absence is the work of every day.  He is the unseen absence that is larger than any of our presences.  But there is something mysterious in seeing the children express him in their particular loves, sadnesses, and passions.  I imagine him now, how he would be experiencing the children and their red letter moments.  And my own sense of all these things is expanded.