Cells and Silos, Holy Saturday

A brother came to Scetis in the Egyptian desert to visit Abba Moses and asked him, “Father, give me a word.” The old man said to him, “Go, sit in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything.”

I spent the second summer of my second seminary experience serving as a chaplain at Methodist Hospital in Houston, Texas. Houston was too far from my home in Austin for me to commute, but there was no way that my wife and daughters could come with me for the whole summer. So, I found a small, one-bedroom apartment in a gentrified neighborhood on Hazard Street—just north of Rice University; a hop skip and jump away from the monumental Texas Medical Center where I’d be working. It was a charming little building built in the 1930s and recently renovated. It was comfortable, quiet and very, very empty.

I had plans, of course, to fill my time in Houston. There were phenomenal museums only minutes from my apartment, a great nightlife with live music, and no lack of amenities to occupy my attention. Twelve weeks alone would be long, but there was more than enough to do.

Instead, my routine every day looked much the same. I would arrive home from the hospital to a quiet apartment. I would change into more comfortable clothes, grateful to shed the suit and tie I was expected to wear—despite the Houston heat and humidity. Then I would lay down on the bed, accompanied by my iPad and whatever dinner I had purchased or prepared, and spend the remainder of the evening reading, watching movies and television or talking with my family. At some point, I would fall asleep and wake to a new day of the same. On weekends I would sometimes go for walks through the neighborhood, though not as many as I would like just because of the broiling heat. I would occasionally go out to eat, and a couple of times I caught a movie and crashed a local hobby shop. I never went to the museums or the parks. Mostly, I just huddled in my temporary home.

Maybe it was the emotional drain of spending days in rooms with strangers, often at one of the worst moments of their lives. Maybe it was the relentless self-examination and enforced vulnerability with my chaplaincy colleagues. Maybe it was the lack of a ready network of local friends. But I think, ironically enough, it was the emptiness of my quarters that made me strangely unable to leave.

It slowly dawned on me that I, then in my late forties, had never lived alone before. I had gone from my parent’s home after graduation to living with my grandmother as her caretaker for several years, then to marriage and making a home with my wife and (eventually) my daughters. In all those years, I had grown accustomed to being surrounded by the presence of others.

What I learned in that summer of solitude was how much of my ‘self’ was the product of the expectations and energy of those around me. I had been like a pinball, propelled more by collision than through any drive of my own. Left to my own devices, it was disconcerting how much of my momentum seemed to have dissipated.

The story of Israel and the story of Jesus are both formed and reformed in the desert. The forty days of Lent allude to that wilderness calling to “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while” (Mk. 6:31). No wonder Christian monks sought out the desert to live in their cells. The ‘rest’ Jesus offers can be unsettling, though. The desert place is a mirror that reveals how lean and narrow our capacity for love can be, how confined we are by who we are to others rather than defined by who we simply are. Paradoxically, it is the desert where we may learn to love rightly by walking the way of the Cross with Jesus.

It’s not an original insight. It is, in fact, one of the truly important realizations of the ascetic life. I could have explained that spirituality long before I ever made my way to Hazard Street. Prior to that summer, though, it had remained largely a theoretical understanding. I had never lived alone in my cell long enough to face how little of my self was really me. I had also never realized how much room there was for Christ to dwell with me, and that is the grace of it all.

—The Rev. J. Michael Matkin

St. John’s, OKC

Losing Control

Losing Control

Father,

I abandon myself into your hands; do with me what you will.

Whatever you may do, I thank you:

I am ready for all, I accept all.

Let only your will be done in me, and in all your creatures.

I wish no more than this, O Lord.

Into your hands I commend my soul;

I offer it to you

with all the love of my heart,

for I love you, Lord,

and so need to give myself,

to surrender myself into your hands,

without reserve,

and with boundless confidence,

for you are my Father.

This is the Prayer of Abandonment written by the Blessed Charles de Foucauld.  Foucauld was a Cistercian Trappist monk who relocated from France to Syria in the late 1800s.  He left the order to become a hermit, living a life of service and labor to others in the Sahara Desert in Southern Algeria.  He was assassinated at his hermitage there on December 1, 1916. 

“I am not in control.”  These may be the five hardest words for any of us to acknowledge.  We want to be in control.  For some, they want to be in control of all things, all the time.  For others, they just want to be able to control their own lives.  There are so many things we want to control: our schedule, our finances, our emotions.  We want to control what others think about us.  We want to control those things that are perhaps controlling us.  Accepting that we are not always in control can be one of the hardest life lessons we learn.  It leads to frustration, upset, and, at times, despair.

As Jesus hung on the cross, he knew that he was not in control.  Our catechism tells us that “by his obedience, even to suffering and death, Jesus made the offering which we could not make.”  As he told his disciples in Gethsemane, he knew his hour had come.  He was no longer in control.  He knew what was ahead of him.  In his sacrifice—in his giving up control—he would overcome death and give us eternal life. 

By giving up control, we are given the opportunity to gain a new paradigm; a new way to see the world around us.  Learning to see things as they really are—and accepting that we are not always going to be in control—can be a liberating concession.  Even more freeing is our willingness to give up the control that we so desire to someone greater than us.  By giving up this control, we are transformed into the beautiful creation that God fashioned in us, rather than who we believe we are meant to be.  When we surrender ourselves to God, we become one of God’s own. 

Following the example of Jesus and abandoning ourselves into the arms of God can be a challenge for us.  As it was for Charles de Foucauld, it requires humility, blind trust, and courage.  But the reward—though not yet revealed to us—is beyond measure.  May God give us the grace to humble ourselves before him.

And the courage to allow him to take control.

—Skip Eller, Postulant for Holy Orders

Iona School of Formation

Mandatum, Maundy Thursday

Years ago, I served as a spiritual director on a Cursillo Team in the Diocese of Western Michigan. A special evening meal was being served for those attending the weekend, but I was involved in a pastoral situation that delayed my participation. The room was nicely decorated and candlelit when I was finally able to join the event. It took some time for my eyes to adjust to the darkened room, but I finally spotted a chair at the end of one of the tables. It was throne-like. I remember thinking that it didn’t seem appropriate to seat a spiritual director in such a chair.

Shortly after I sat down, I was approached by someone who spoke in a hushed breath. “That’s eees’s ...”. “What?” I replied. “That’s eees’s chair.” Look, I can be slow on the uptake, but this was not all my fault. “What?” I queried.  Like Peter, it took me three times to comprehend the moment and the missing consonant. “That’s Jesus’ chair.” Of course, it was a throne.  The person was trying to politely tell me to move: I was sitting in Jesus’ chair! I’m uncomfortably aware that Jesus told a story about people who sit in the wrong chair at a banquet. Thank God, it wasn’t Advent when we are consciously expecting his arrival. Nonetheless I looked up at the person and replied, “If Jesus was here, he’d be serving the meal.”

We are in the midst of Holy Week. The average Episcopalian is old enough to remember when we read from Luke’s gospel on Maundy Thursday. Luke’s narrative is set as a Passover meal; and we taught about the institution of the Lord’s Supper. We focused on bread and wine. We imagined having an intimate dinner with Jesus; very much like the Cursillo meal that I was telling you about, well decorated, cozy, and candlelit. Sometimes our concentration was so intense that we neglected to discern the body.

Today, when we observe Maundy Thursday, we read from John’s gospel (John 13:1-17, 31b-35) and it doesn’t feel the same. First of all, it is not a Passover meal, and John doesn’t talk about bread and wine. More importantly, however, Jesus isn’t seated at the table. His place is empty. Even as Peter protests, Jesus washes the disciples’ feet. It is his mandatum: “love one another.”

I have often wondered if our church would be different if we had only known John’s gospel. Would we wash feet every Sunday to remind us of eees’s command? Would we develop new traditions that would make the process less messy or more efficient? Would foot washing end up looking like a shoeshine? Would we still concentrate on Average Sunday Attendance as a metric of congregational vitality, or would we recognize that our places of repose should frequently be empty? Would we gain a deeper appreciation of Jesus’ response to the disciples when he told them that he had food that they didn’t know about?

The mandatum to love sharpens our hearing and adds clarity to our life of discipleship. Mark, the evangelist, tells us that James and John were still looking for a place to sit down even though Jesus had repeatedly told them that discipleship required more than they could imagine. While worship and devotion play important roles in our spiritual lives, the apostle Paul understood that without love we would always be asking, “What?” The evangelist, Luke, possibly because he was a companion of Paul, knew that this mandatum is about acting like a neighbor to everyone.

It is imperative that we remember that Jesus’ commandment was not new. It lived in Deuteronomy’s summary of the Law and the prophet Micah wrote about mandatum eight hundred years before Jesus. He just didn’t use the same words.  

‘He has showed you, O man, what is good; and what does the LORD require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?’                                                                        Micah 6:8

Micah helps us understand Peter’s response to Jesus once his pride was challenged. Humility opens our hearts to mandatum not only as direct objects, but as subjects. Who would have guessed that middle school English grammar would be theologically impactful?

"Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!"

—The Rev. Dr. Mark Story

St. Mary’s Episcopal Church

Real Presence

It was Maundy Thursday 1997, St. Dunstan’s Episcopal Church, Houston Texas. The feet had been washed, the Eucharist celebrated, the altar stripped, and the Blessed Sacrament reserved in a modest tabernacle at one side of the nave. The Overnight Watch with Christ had begun.  Parishioners had signed up in advance keep vigil for an hour through the night until the Good Friday liturgy the next day at noon.  I had signed up for the midnight-to-one block, being something of a night owl by disposition.

I arrived at the church about ten minutes before my appointed time, and waited outside the church doors.  They were locked from within, and the person watching before me soon finished their shift and gave me entrance as they departed.  I was alone in the nave, an austere modern structure with dark woodwork and white plastered walls.  Recessed lighting cast a warm glow throughout the room—enough to see and read by, but properly subdued for keeping a vigil.

Copies of a parish booklet of Lenten devotions lay on a small table at the front of the church.  I picked up one of these, sat in a pew near the altar, and began to settle in for the hour.  I read the prayers slowly, trying to enter into them as fully as possible.  At times I would put aside the booklet and take a hymnal from the bookrack in the pew, select a hymn, and meditate on the text or sing quietly.  Before long the hour had come to an end and I looked outside for my successor.  

No one was there. 

I waited for a few minutes, wondering if they were running late, knowing that if I departed, no one else would be able to enter the building for the rest of the night.  The crash bars on the main doors would automatically lock behind me, and anyone coming later would keep their vigil in the churchyard.

It became clear that the 1:00 AM watcher would not be coming.  I returned to the nave—this time sitting near the back, better to hear someone at the door if they should turn up, after all.  I settled in again for a second hour, wrapping my jacket closer around myself.  I wished I’d thought to bring a hat or head-covering.  Even suburban Houston can be chilly in early spring, late in the night.

The large cross above the altar in St. Dunstan’s Church is of a piece with the building itself—modern, understated, almost monastic in its simplicity.  It is made of dark wood, carved in a way that hints at the contours of a human figure, suggesting rather than describing any specific detail.  The cross itself seemed to shimmer with a warm energy in the dim church. I may have dozed off for a moment.  But I remember being aware of a Presence, something vast and gentle and embracing, as I gazed at the cross.  I cannot say that I “saw” Jesus there, only that I experienced him in a way that I never had before.  I felt myself seen, and known, and welcomed in the Presence there, in the echoing silence and the glowing darkness.

Years later, I was reading about John Vianney, the beloved parish priest of Ars, a tiny French town in the early nineteenth century.  Fr. John had a parishioner who used to come sit in the church every day. “In the morning on his way to work, and in the evening on his way home, he left his spade and pick-axe in the porch, and he spent a long time in adoration before the Blessed Sacrament…I asked him once what he said to Our Lord during the long visits he made Him. Do you know what he told me? ‘Eh, Monsieur le Curé I say nothing to Him, I look at Him and He looks at me, and we are happy.’”

Sometimes words are not necessary.  Simply to be quiet, in the Presence, is enough.

To know, and to be known. To be loved, and to love.

“Be still then, and know that I am God.” (Ps. 46:11)

—The Rev. Jason Haddux

[1] https://eucharisticvirtue.com/2017/09/05/daily-eucharist-quote-st-john-vianney-67/

Accessed 4 February 2021, 20:30 Central Time

The Breaking

For several years, I have used the same book for my Lenten devotionals: The Desert: An Anthology for Lent by John Moses.  Each day is broken into a series of sayings from various individuals.  Some of those sayings speak to me more than others, and some cause me to catch my breath. It begins on Ash Wednesday with a quote from Alessandro Pronzato:

“The desert is the threshold to the meeting ground of God and man… But it is only promised to those who are able to chew sand for forty years without doubting their invitation to the feast in the end.” (p. 26) From there, you enter into a great journey with all those who have ever dared to step into this barren land of heat and sand with the Israelites, the prophets, the desert monks, and more, knowing full well that the “desert is a place where the soul encounters God, but it is also a place of extreme desolation—a place of testing, where the soul is flung upon its own resources and therefore upon God.  The desert, in this sense, can be anywhere.” (p. 26, Elizabeth Hamilton)

Each day, in far fewer words than this devotional, I am challenged to enter more deeply—to become what I have never been, but what God desires for and from me.  And it is each year that when I come to the selections for Palm Sunday that I am broken once again, and another layer of “the old man” (Romans 6:6) crumbles.  It occurs when I read the poem, The Coming, by R.S. Thomas:

And God held in his hand

A small globe. Look he said.

The son looked. Far off,

As through water, he saw

A scorched land of fierce

Colour. The light burned

There; crusted buildings

Cast their shadows: a bright

Serpent, a river

Uncoiled itself, radiant

With slime.

                        On a bare

Hill a bare tree saddened

The sky. Many People

Held out their thin arms

To it, as though waiting

For a vanished April

To return to its crossed

Boughs. The son watched

Them. Let me go there, he said. (p. 116)

“…And having said this he breathed his last.” (Luke 23:46b)

Through Christ Jesus, we are made worthy of the Kingdom of Heaven, but in reading such words, I do not always feel such worthiness; for I recognize that my life with God has not always been about seeking ways of sanctification, but has instead been about seeking excuses to justify my wallowings in the river of slime.  In that moment, I am dashed against the rocks and broken, becoming one of the many found standing on the bare hill, with my arms outstretched towards that bare tree, waiting for… waiting for… Love.

To be broken is a holy work that requires us to stand before God, naked and alone, in the desert.  It requires a deep truth with ourselves, a setting aside of all pretense and justifications, and a willingness to openly reveal our sinfulness before the Living God. In doing so, we do not find a vengeful and wrathful God; but instead, we encounter the Love for which we’ve always been waiting.

Hail, holy Queen, Mother of mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope. To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn, then, most gracious advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us, and after this, our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus. O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary.  Pray for us, O holy Mother of God.  That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ.

Step into the desert, chew the sand, stretch forth your arms…

…and encounter Love.

—The Rev. Dr. John Toles

St. Matthew’s Episcopal Church, Enid

Maybe, Just Maybe…

I write this in the late evening. It is as bitterly cold as I can remember ever experiencing in my 66 years. Regardless of the temperature, it has been my custom since the night of April 22nd, 2014, the day I got sober, to go out on my front porch alone and pray. Sometimes, when the weather is like it is tonight, my outdoor spiritual practice is brief, consisting of our Lord’s Prayer, the Nicene Creed, and two Hail Marys.  

On nights like tonight, I find myself worrying over those of God’s creatures, many of whom we call pets. Tonight was unsurprisingly deathly quiet: no barking, no cats roaming the neighborhood, no sounds of birds; and no sirens that have come to mostly herald a sickening reminder of the ravages of the plague under which we have lived now far too long. At the worst of it—even at the latest hour of the night—the sound of sirens was virtually constant as were the sounds of the medivac helicopters headed either to Integris Baptist or OU Medical Center. Our home seemed to be in the flight path of both those hospitals and I tried, as best I could, to pray for those unknown persons in those ambulances and helicopters; but there were often too many to keep up with one at a time. I admit that I frequently gave up in despair.  

Why is it during the season of Lent that we think we just aren’t doing it right (that Lenten “thing”), if we don’t stop doing something bad for us—for all of a whopping 40 days (46 if you count the Sabbath days when we get to cheat)? Back in my drinking days I made several attempts to give up drinking as though, by doing so, I would prove myself to be other than the alcoholic that I knew in my heart of hearts I really was. I once made it all of 2 ½ days and when I invariably failed, rationalized that Lent didn’t really matter anyway, and that I was needlessly torturing myself. It was to be a very long time before I knew that my condition was, at its core, a spiritual disease with a survival rate of just about zero.  

In the ensuing years, I heard that Lent did not have to be about giving up anything, but rather the “taking up”. So, mostly out of guilt rather than faith and grace, I gave it a couple of tries. I think subconsciously that I perceived those efforts as some sort of redemption. I certainly did not understand at the time that they were really the infant beginnings of a journey to Jesus, a journey to the cross, a journey to Easter. 

My first attempt involved an effort to do all of those things that Christ taught us we should be doing as disciples. I accomplished a few of them, although I never could figure out how to go about visiting someone in prison. Mind you by that point I was sober, and in AA. I could have jumped through enough hoops to actually be a part of taking a meeting to a prison.  But in hindsight, I had not developed the sort of spiritual courage that would have been necessary to do it.  

Another time, I decided that I was going to try to become a daily communicant but discovered that was logistically more complicated than I was prepared for. However, I did manage to receive communion about 30 times that Lent; and I now realize it was a sign that real spiritual growth was finally beginning. Of course, that practice would currently be a practical impossibility, due to Covid.  

Now, years later, I am a Candidate for Holy Orders and stand on the threshold of ordination as a transitional deacon and, God willing, a priest. I grew up in a faith tradition in which Lent might as well have not even existed. All of my experiences with Lent came much later in life—and all those that really meant something, in only the last few years.

So, what does it all mean to me now? Forgiveness, repentance, alms-giving and all of the traditional practices are well and good…but they do not prepare us to be disciples. They do not prepare us for the cross, for the resurrection or for whatever comes after that—not just until the next Lent but for the rest of our lives. Rather, for me lent is an opportunity to begin yet another critical journey—a journey into true discipleship as preached by our Lord in the Sermon on the Mount and throughout the Gospels. It is a time to decide whether to make that great leap of faith; and having so decided, to begin preparations for the changes that will inevitably confront me, and all of us. If Lent is a time of reflection, these are the things upon which we should not merely reflect but plan to put into action.  

Several years ago I made a serious effort to help a young homeless man named Michael and his girlfriend that everyone called “Pinky”. Michael and Pinky had the usual issues that drive homelessness, including mental illness and addiction. There were times that I thought that Pinky was going to make it, but ultimately, she was dragged back into the cycle of despair and both of them remained on the streets. I can’t remember how many times in the fall of each year I would encounter them outside the courthouse (one of their favorite places to beg) that they told me, “I hope I can make it through another winter”.  

I think I’ll go back outside for a few more minutes and say a short prayer for the abused animals suffering in the cold, but add a prayer that Michael and Pinky survive this brutal night. And maybe, just maybe, a Lenten plan will begin to take shape.  

—Dave Thomas, Candidate for Holy Orders

School of IONA

3

Making a Difference by Making Space

Is such the fast that I choose,

    a day to humble oneself?

Is it to bow down the head like a bulrush,

    and to lie in sackcloth and ashes?

Will you call this a fast,

    a day acceptable to the Lord?

 Is not this the fast that I choose:

    to loose the bonds of injustice,

    to undo the thongs of the yoke,

to let the oppressed go free,

    and to break every yoke?

Is it not to share your bread with the hungry,

    and bring the homeless poor into your house;

when you see the naked, to cover them,

    and not to hide yourself from your own kin?

Isaiah 58:5-7

As my spirituality has grown in my clerical development during postulancy, I have begun to see Lent as a season of reorienting myself to G-d. I take on practices of fasting and penitence—not simply to give up things, but to give for G-d’s justice.

The Christian tradition teaches us that anything we do in prayer and practice should transform the mind, body and spirit toward/for the Divine. And through that transformation, as we read in Isaiah, the fruits that we reap are inherently made of/for justice seeking—feeding the hungry, breaking the bonds of the oppressed, and clothing the naked.

This year, as I think about Lenten practices that might allow my spirit to focus on G-d more, I think about what distracts me from the Holy. I have to admit that on any given day I am immersed in the material world and all its distractions. When I stop paying attention, I easily become wrapped up in the values of Capitalism—consumerism and productivity. These values start to shape everything in my life, even my spirituality. My prayer time becomes another activity to check off a list, something to complete instead of something to live into.

As we follow the liturgical year, Christian spirituality has a flow to it, a rhythm of being and doing; with G-d in ourselves, and with others. What I do in my interior spiritual life will affect how I interact with my exterior life, my relationships with Creation. Through consistent spiritual practices, I’ve learned that the goal of my prayer life is to let the Holy shape Her image in me more fully, so that I can embody Her justice in the world. As Paul says, “it is no longer I that live, but Christ that lives within me.” Said differently, I strive for G-d to be the thing that animates the way I live, and love, in the world.

So, through this same theo-logic, Lenten practices then become practices of resistance to the ways of the world. This Lent I feel called to fast from and resist the structures of Capitalism by not consuming things I don’t need. I won’t make that late night Amazon Prime purchase for G-d knows what. I’ll log out of social media and let go of my doom scroll consumption, and spend that time doing something that actually nourishes my spirit. I can turn off the TV at night and read a book instead, or call a loved one to catch up and check in. I can volunteer my time serving in my community; I can get outdoors and connect with Mother Nature; I can be more intentional with delighting in all the ways I’ll encounter G-d throughout the week; I can let G-d’s character of justice change the way I see/do my work and my relationships.

We get to make choices every day for how we spend our time. Imagine how much time and mental/spiritual space we would have if we slowed down and stopped consuming, even just for a few moments a day. In reclaiming and taking back that time and space, we can actually repurpose our time for participating in G-d’s values. 

In the simplest terms, consumerism and the culture of busy-ness are designed to distract us from what really feeds us in life—our relationship with G-d and others. It also distracts us from seeing systemic issues of oppression in our communities. Even worse still, the constant barrage of wanting and ‘the pursuit of more’ keeps us from having the time, energy or desire to do anything about those issues when we do see them.

So, if we want to fast for G-d’s justice-making in the world like Isaiah suggests, how do we do that? What can we give up to make space for this transformation to occur in our hearts and minds? How do we care for our neighbor and those less fortunate?

I invite you, during this season of Lent, to take on practices of resistance instead of giving up things that make no lasting impact on your spiritual life.  Do it because reorienting ourselves to G-d could very well change the world.

—Sarah Smith, Postulant for Holy Orders

Soon to be attending Seminary of the Southwest

Thy Will, Not My Will

“For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the LORD, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope.”

—Jeremiah 29:11

About a decade ago, shortly after my divorce, I came across this verse as part of a daily devotional reading. It all but leapt off the page when I read it; speaking to a myriad of concerns I had about the turmoil into which my life had fallen. It was a boon to my angry and grieving soul. At the time, I rather short sightedly assumed that this verse had been given to me simply to help me through that specific period of my life. Indeed, I was given almost daily reminders of this promise. I would see these familiar words everywhere: on social media, on little knickknacks in a store, on billboards on the side of the road. What I didn’t realize at the time was that this promise would continue to unfold for years.

About five years later, during another tumultuous time of life when I was between jobs, I moved back to a small town that I thought I had left behind long before. I was extremely frustrated by this change of plans. But God, who is always faithful, reminded me–once again during another daily devotional–of the treasure of the Jeremiah promise. This time, however, I felt impressed to go back and read the entire book. When I got back to chapter 29, I noticed the background to the popular eleventh verse. The prophet is telling the Israelites that they will soon be taken captive by the Babylonians. But instead of being upset about this impending exile, the prophet tells them to put down roots and “seek the welfare of the city…for in its welfare, you will find your welfare.”

Once again, I had another “aha” moment. While it is true that I had not moved to Babylon, I did feel as though I had been exiled to a certain degree. Even so, following the Spirit’s prompting, I began to put down my own roots and seek out ways that I could invest in this community to which I had returned. One of the things I did was to find ways in which I could become more involved with the little church I had begun attending upon moving back to town. It started out fairly small: we didn’t have a music minister so our priest was playing the hymns via a Midi computer program. Rather than him having to walk over to the organ every time there was music during the service, I offered to sit by the computer and hit “play”. Over time, that small act of service progressed to me becoming the music leader. Again, time passed and I was given the opportunity to teach Christian Formation classes. Now, nearly six years later, I am a postulant for ordination.

Seeking to become ordained clergy was not something that had ever been on my own agenda. God’s ways are not our ways, but he is always faithful. Now, every time the Spirit leads me into a new facet of service, I am reminded of the promise: “I know the plans I have for you…”

—Nancy Gill

Postulant for Holy Orders, School of IONA

My Lenten Attitude

I don’t like Lent…I am not a wilderness person.  I am a resurrection-type person.  I don’t like the journey; I want to be at the destination. You can imagine the conundrum that puts me in during Lent.  I want it to be Easter.  I want to say “Alleluia!”  I don’t want to remember the ways that we turn(ed) on Jesus.  I don’t want to see that side of people, and I certainly don’t want to see that part of me.

I blame, of course, my parents. We used to travel to the most eastern point of North America every other year as a child.  The almost three-thousand mile journey took six days. We travelled by van  that dad had outfitted with a bench seat that opened to a fold out bed, a bunk bed that was suspended by cables between the windows, a stove that opened up and doubled as a backrest for one of us kids to sit “on the hump” between mom and dad up front, and a plywood box on the top of the van that had a mattress in it and was covered by a canvas tarp (like a tent) that the boys would sleep in.  Mom, dad, my two brothers and I would travel from Duluth, Minnesota to St. John’s Newfoundland to see my mom’s family, that she left when she married my dad after WWII.  Dad was an early riser, so we were on the road by 5:00am and travelled five hundred miles per day.  We stopped for fuel (and bathroom break), and we stopped at a campground by 5:00pm every night to settle in.  Mom prepared dinner, and before bed, she prepared food for us to eat in the car the following day.  I remember passing wonderful sights driving through Canada and the northeast United States, but they were all a blur.  We rarely stopped to enjoy anything along the way.   Any “vacationing” that was done along the way was at the campground during those couple of hours between dinner and bedtime.  Our purpose on this vacation was getting to the destination so that mom could visit her family.  Although the vacation was one month long, the only part that was considered “vacation” was the two weeks in the middle.  The traveling time was just a necessity, something we HAD to do to get to where we wanted to be.

Lent:  The time in the middle that is a necessity to get to where I want to be.  That is how I look at Lent.  I cannot get to Easter without going through the muck.  I cannot see the resurrected Christ until I acknowledge my role in His crucifixion.  I cannot sing, “Alleluia!” before I say, “Crucify Him!”.  I cannot fully appreciate the joy until I fully appreciate the pain.

Lent gives me hope.  Hope that there is a brighter day, hope that the journey will only last “so long” until I get to the destination.  Let assures me that if I am willing to take the journey with Christ that I will be rewarded with the risen Christ, and the knowledge of eternal life.  Alleluia!

—The Rev. Cheryl Harder-Missinne

Trinity, Tulsa

No Pun Intended

“Do not deprive one another except perhaps by agreement for a set time, to devote yourselves to prayer and then come together again, so that Satan may not tempt you because of your lack of self-control.”

1 Corinthians 7:5

The Super Bowl, professional football’s championship and the glitziest day of the American sports calendar, was played a short time ago and a new championship team has been crowned. The pomp, parties and parades are over and now the quieter offseason has arrived. There was a time when the offseason was a time for professional athletes to slack off for a few months and not worry so much about staying in shape. Heck, that’s what training camp is for!

But now, the offseason is precisely the time for fuller commitment. It’s when athletes of all ages and skill levels prepare and build themselves for what lies ahead. They look back at the past year, determine what went well and what didn’t, and then rededicate themselves to reaching their goals. This time is important for all teams and athletes; but especially for the motivated ones who didn’t reach the top, because they know they must dig deeper to get where they want to go.

Lent, to me, is like the modern offseason for Christians. None of us reach the top. In this life, we all fall short of glory because we are all imperfect. We want to draw closer to God and work on ourselves in meaningful ways and Lent gives us the time and space to do that. This is our opportunity to prepare and build ourselves spiritually for the seasons that lie ahead.

It’s been that way since the beginning. The Ash Wednesday service in our Book of Common Prayer elucidates that the earliest of Christians prepared for the Lord’s passion and resurrection by ‘observing a season of penitence and fasting’, and that Lent also prepared new converts for baptism. To fully appreciate the Easter season that celebrates Christ’s resurrection and ascension to glory– the basis of our salvation–and to simply be more loving and respectful to others, we must first look inward. What can I do to draw closer to God and be an encouragement to others, which in turn increases my genuine joy and peace?

Recognizing my shortcomings and asking God to forgive my sins is a big part of these forty days. This penitence is not meant to tear us down, but rather to build us up, because we feel God’s grace and mercy in greater measure. Honestly, there is no time of year when I feel more Christian, more connected to God, and it’s because of our heightened recognition of our need for God.

Reassessment and rededication are part of offseason, but so is putting in the work to improve. There is nothing better than increased prayer, meditation, and study to build our spiritual strength and agility. In addition, many of us give up something for Lent, or perhaps add a new good habit. Lenten sacrifices that people make seem to run the spectrum from trivial to serious; but I think they all have value. Something as small as giving up chocolate keeps one mindful that we are in this season of penitence. Penitence that is followed by spiritual growth and improvement. For me, that revolves around practicing better judgment and self-control. That is why I give up the same thing every year—puns.

Yes, puns.

They have always come naturally to me, but sometimes they can be fast and furious from mind to mouth. Sometimes they are welcomed and appreciated, other times, well… Trust me, making the conscious decision to not say puns and instead keep them to myself for 47 straight days can be tough. But it forces me to be more cognizant of others and to think (even more) before I speak—two spiritual muscles groups that can always use strengthening. I may focus on other areas from one year to the next, but for me, verbal discipline is a constant. As James 3:8-9 says,

“(B)ut no one can tame the tongue – and restless evil, full of deadly poison. With it we bless the Lord and Father and with it we curse those who are made in the likeness of God.”

Yes, Lent is a time for increased awareness of our shortcomings. We are genuinely sorry for them and we ask for forgiveness. But like a sports league’s offseason, it’s also our time to begin again. Yes, I make mistakes but what am I going to do about it? I will pray, meditate, listen to and heed what God tells me and do what I can to improve on my faults as I continue to build on my strengths. Ultimately, with God’s help, I will be victorious.

And you will, too.

—The Rev. James Tyree

St. John’s, Norman

Advent-ure into Lent

In the Gospels, Jesus’ problem with the Pharisees was not their desire to follow the law of Moses, but that the way they were keeping the Law meant that they missed what the law was pointing towards. For example, the things the law was calling them to like respect for the sacred, justice, mercy, faith and purity of heart, were being set aside for the sake of keeping appearances. They had the orthodoxy, but not the orthopraxy. So, Jesus called them hypocrites.

In my opinion, Lent is an especially good time for finding the right balance between outward practice and inner devotion and humility. During Lent we tend to take on a practice or give something up. For me, Lent almost always amounts to some rule I am committing to keep. But it should be more than this.

Maybe Advent is a good guide for Lent. We all know in our bones that Advent is different. Advent is about waiting, it is about self-reflection, it is about silence and listening to God. Advent—kept in the traditional way—forces me to take a long look inside myself and ask some basic questions, “Am I ready to meet God? Am I ready to welcome this child into the world, into my personal world?"

Lent really should inspire us to ask these same questions.

Lent should be just as introspective.

Lent should teach us patience, if it teaches us anything.

Advent preaches that God is coming. God is coming in the form of Jesus, returning to set the world right. This is why we focus on his birth among us. He has come once, and he will return. We must be ready to meet him on his arrival, whether in the form of a person in need or with his coming in the clouds at the sound of the trumpet. Lent is also about this message; but more about the question, “how will you get ready?”

Now that I have laid down some good-old-fashioned-former-evangelical-guilt, are you ready for the good news? The good news is that you are ready to meet him. That was the point of his coming, the first time. Jesus did not go through all of that trouble because he was looking for a reason to condemn. The truth is just the opposite. He came to make us ready, to make creation ready. He wants us to be humble, to know that we need God and that we need each other.

Now, he simply just wants us to wake up.

—The Rev. Tom Dahlman

Emmanuel Episcopal Church, Shawnee

Never Let a Good Crisis Go to Waste

But where can wisdom be found? Where does understanding dwell? No mortal comprehends its worth; it cannot be found in the land of the living. The deep says, ‘It is not in me’; the sea says, ‘It is not with me.’ It cannot be bought with the finest gold, nor can its price be weighed out in silver. 

Job 28.12-15

A common question over the span of the Coronavirus has been whether or not you have acquired any new COVID skills.  I am a Chaplain and teacher at Casady School, one of our Episcopal schools in Oklahoma City.  I can tell you without hesitation that Casady made the intentional decision to ‘not let a good crisis go to waste’, and we’ve been trying to accrue new skills—mostly around education and technology.  For instance, we’ve been seating only a fourth of our students in the Chapel and streaming to the other three-fourths.  That’s been one of the skills I’ve been forming;  I’m a TV preacher now!  I have become more naturally aware of both audiences: the ones present in the room; and the ones watching via ‘the stream’.  I comfortably talk to both, but it wasn’t always that way.

When it all started, I was angry about it.  I felt vulnerable.  I like a live audience—it’s the performer in me.  I like the ability to read the room and make micro-adjustments to my tone and content, as might warrant.  When I’m speaking to people with masks on and into a camera lens, it robs me of that tool and the ability to have some modicum of control.  I felt more alone and vulnerable.

My paying gig aside, I also unwittingly learned to play the Irish Tenor Banjo during the last twelve months.  I was tinkering when this whole mess started.  But I was on the fence about whether or not to give it up.  There’s an Irish Music Session that meets at The Patriarch Pub in Edmond on Monday nights, and I had been sitting-in on some of those sessions.  The way those work is in concentric circles: the more accomplished players sit in the middle and lead; the lesser players sit on the outer circles and play more quietly, in accordance with one’s skill level.  When a song comes up that you are confident playing louder, you do.  And when you’re successful the ‘session’ celebrates it.  Adversely, when you are playing beyond your skill level, they’ll let you know, typically with grace and kindness.

During COVID I did not attend those Sessions because it was too hard to socially distance.  Instead, I practiced at home.  In fact—and you all are going to LOVE this—I often played during those interminable Zoom sessions we’ve all been learning to endure.  I put my computer on an adjustable stand, banjo in my lap, muted the sound, and practiced. And lo’ and behold, I got better.  I’m by no stretch proficient, but I’m not too shabby.  I’m eager to re-emerge at The Patriarch this summer and ‘play-out’ just a smidge louder than before.

Spiritual growth has a similar calculus.  There is a manner of comfortable living, and our skill sets conform to those familiar pathways. Lent reminds us that disruption is one of the things that forces us to recalibrate, introducing new vulnerabilities that hopefully lead to growth.  I’m still unsure as to whether one can really schedule spiritual growth; but that’s another reflection, altogether.  Suffice it to say that we should never let a good crisis go to waste, even the metaphorical ones that wait for us at the end of Epiphany.

—The Rev. Canon Tim Sean Youmans

Casady School and St. Paul’s Cathedral, OKC

The Sublime Perspective

How can God understand what it feels like to go through a divorce? Can Jesus really know how lost and helpless I feel when my daughter is having such a hard time at school? Does He know how ashamed I am of what I’ve done in my life?  

There are so many questions that we ask God, whether aloud in our prayers, or as a silent cry from the place deep within where we store our grief and shame and anger. So often we feel alone—we don’t want to burden our friends or family with our problems, or we carry our grief not actually knowing where to lay it down.

Some years ago, I moved through the Stations of the Cross and was blind-sided with sorrow and powerlessness. The grief and isolation that I endured during horrible periods in my life washed over me, choking my voice and blinding my sight with tears. And—just like that—I discovered that a movement through the last moments of our Savior’s life offered a balm to my brokenness I could not find anywhere else.

Mother Angelica in her book, Suffering and Burnout, encourages us to reach up to Jesus as we offer our pain to Him. As we reach out, we rest that anguish in the holes of His feet, His hands, His side. Our pain is a gift, blackened with grief and trauma, that we cry to Jesus to help us carry. And, through the Stations of the Cross, we receive a template if you will of our movement through heartbreak.

So, how can the fourteen Stations of the Cross be that balm of companionship and healing that we need? Well, we are creatures who respond in various ways to stimuli—both within and without ourselves. The Stations of the Cross draw in the five senses of our self-expression: sight, sound, hearing, touch, and taste. In Ignatian Prayer, we crack open our imaginations, allowing more intimate and immediate access to communication. We allow our sensibilities freedom to roam about, explore, absorb.

Taking this brief understanding of Ignatian Prayer, let us take the first station in which Jesus is condemned to death. We imagine Him standing in a room full of people who hate Him, people who betray Him, people who demand His death. We listen to their yelling, their jeering, their shrieking against Him. We feel the heat of tension. We smell the air of sweat, the breath of those taunting Him. And—within that movement of our imaginations—we reflect on those times in our lives when we have been rejected or betrayed or falsely maligned. As we witness the scene of Jesus before His accusers unfold, we allow ourselves the time and space to be present there. We watch His responses, and we remember our own. His loneliness begins to look like our own loneliness. Slowly, our pain finds companionship in the pain of our Lord, and we see that we are not alone.

We can also look at that first Station from a different approach. Again, we see Jesus standing at the center of the crowded room. Instead of our imagining ourselves in His place or standing beside Him amidst the accusations, we look to the crowd. We see their faces as they scream out. We hear the growling of their voices. And we remember when we have been angry, hateful, sarcastic. We reflect on those times we allowed the anger of our neighbor to incite our own; those times we participated in gossip; those times we posted on text threads, Facebook, or Twitter with words and accusations that we would never dare to say to a person’s face. And we are struck with the shame and guilt of our actions. We recognize ourselves in the crowd, and we are awash with repentance. We sit in that space of grief and ask forgiveness of the One who knows the blunt end of betrayal. The Stations of the Cross offer an opportunity to explore our own feelings and experiences as we witness the movements and actions of Jesus. We allow it time and patience and space to unfold on its own; we cannot rush this process. And each time we come to Jesus and walk beside Him, He shows us something new about ourselves and those Golgotha events. The absolutely beautiful piece that begins to grow is our understanding of Him and our love for Him. In time, we find consolation that we aren’t alone in our betrayal; we aren’t alone in our physical pain; we aren’t alone in our shame.

The healing begins.

—The Rev. Janie Koch 

All Saints Episcopal Church, McAlester

Through Hymn We Understand

Too often, we don’t really know what to make of the season of Lent. We tend to think of it as a solemn, serious, penitential time before Easter. We may know that Lent was historically a time of fasting and other disciplines for those who would be admitted or re-admitted to the church on Easter. We may be aware that Lent is a time for added spiritual discipline, cleansing, and growth, which is as likely to involve taking on something as opposed to giving up something. But how often do we understand it as a time of preparing to be an Easter people, full of light and joy and ready to change the world?

For a fresh view of Lent, open the Hymnal 1982 and turn to Hymn 145. Right away, it challenges us to a new perspective, “Now quit your care...”  And in the second verse it states “grief is not Lent’s goal, but to be led to where God’s glory flashes...” Next, turn to Hymn 149, where it reminds us that—in Lent—we are “walking once more the pilgrim way of Lent...”

Those two hymns provide a real meaning and purpose for Lent. Because a pilgrim is a person on a journey to a holy place, but not just any journey; and the journey is not just about getting to the destination. The journey itself, in many ways, looms at least as large as the goal.

The starting point for the Lenten pilgrimage is Ash Wednesday, when we are called to penitence and reminded of both our mortality and also our hope, as we ask God to “Accomplish in us the work of your salvation.” The Ash Wednesday liturgy gives us a goal for our journey: “Bring us with all your saints to the joy of his resurrection.”

One thing a pilgrimage tests is endurance. For a wonderful, recent account of this, I recommend Timothy Egan’s book, “A Pilgrimage to Eternity: From Canterbury to Rome in Search of a Faith.” Egan, an award-winning author and journalist, followed the ancient pilgrimage route from Canterbury—England through France, Switzerland, and Italy to Rome—seeking answers to questions of faith that had troubled him for years. It was a rugged trip for him, but also a soul-stirring experience.

With that in mind, we can ‘hit the road’ for the Lenten pilgrimage, seeking our own soul-stirring experiences. While it is never the same journey for any two people, it is all on the same road: the highway leading us further into the kingdom of God, the road to our eternal home. For more about that highway, turn to Hymn 647 (my all-time favorite hymn.) The poet reminds us that “The way is truth, the way is love...” and also that “Through light and dark the road leads on...” because our Lenten pilgrimage is, among other things, a time of self-exploration and opening ourselves to God.  It is during this time when we must confront such dark things as our guilt, our doubts, and our temptations, plus the traumas and griefs of life. There is light on the road, too, such as the joys of discovery, the warmth of friendships new and old, the promise of salvation, and the shining example of our Lord and the saints who traveled the road before us.

Just as a pilgrim about to set out needs to be appropriately equipped for the journey—with clothing, footwear, food, first aid supplies, maps, emergency plans, and advice—consider what might be needed for the Lenten journey. Prayers, reading, and other spiritual sustenance are vital. Planning the route is strongly recommended, and using an experienced spiritual guide can make the journey much more rewarding. But two more things ought to be in the Lenten pilgrim’s backpack: a trusting attitude of hopeful expectation; and the refreshing power of some of our wonderful hymns.

The rich rewards for the Lenten pilgrim can be many. The point of Lent is not grief and gloom, but training for further adventures along the spiritual road. The Lenten pilgrimage leads to Easter, and the highway into God’s kingdom goes on from there, until, as Hymn 142 concludes, “an Easter of unending joy we may attain at last!”

Wayne Hanway, Candidate for Holy Orders

School of IONA

A Piece of Peace

 In these turbulent times… Make me an Instrument of Your Peace.

For the past couple months, I have used the prayer attributed to St. Francis as a focus of my morning Centering Prayer practice. I plan to continue this practice through Lent. What I’ve long appreciated about repetitive prayer practices is how, over time, the prayer seems to open up and welcome me in. I glimpse new facets, even new avenues of the prayer, and gain new insights. This has been true in saying the Rosary, doing Lectio Divina, and now with this prayer. Let me share what I’ve discovered, and how it has affected me.

The prayer maybe familiar to you. If not, I’m happy to share it here as it is a gem!

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

Where there is injury, pardon;

Where there is doubt, faith;

Where there is despair, hope;

Where there is darkness, light;

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master grant that I may

Not so much seek to be consoled as to console,

To be understood as to understand,

To be loved, as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive,

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Awesome! I love it! And, if we could all do that—all the people of the earth, each in their own unique and yet universal way—what a wonderful world it would be!

Here’s how the prayer opened itself to me—and it seems likely that if you were to pray this or another prayer on a regular basis, that it would open itself to you, too. In praying this prayer over the years, I’ve always adopted a “doing” orientation and a “looking outward” orientation. To be God’s instrument of peace, the litany of actions named are obviously things to do in the world: Find hatred and sow love; reveal discord and facilitate reconciliation; discover doubt and bring faith; uncover despair and instill hope; bring light to dark thoughts and places; birth joy amid sadness.

As I prayed however, I discovered that these things resided within me and needed healing—actually… they needed healing within me before I ventured out to heal anyone else. I revised the prayer to orient the work of finding, revealing, discovering, uncovering and then bringing light and joy to my own soul. I still love the Prayer of St. Francis and pray it, but I also pray—and I invite you to pray:

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred within me, let me sow love.

Where I have sustained injury, help me to forgive myself and others;

Where there is doubt, led me to learn faith.

When I despair, teach me to hope.

Where I have darkness, help me shine your bright light there.

Where I have sadness, help me to uncover your joy.

O Divine Master grant that I may

Not so much seek to be consoled as to console,

To be understood as to understand,

To be loved, as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive,

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

These actions are joint actions, done with God’s help! The prayer has caused me to examine my own thoughts, words and deeds. I’ve found that this prayer practice (which really does not take a large slice out of my day!) causes me to press the pause button at times during the day. For example, when I am being affronted by an irritable person, I press the pause button and consider what they must be going through to appear so irritable. Having re-oriented myself from “victim of their irritability” to “Instrument of Peace”, I can inquire about what’s going on in their world. This little “pause and pivot” makes a big difference to both my own and the other person’s day. They feel listened to and supported. This self-work done with my version of the prayer actually brings me to a place where I can do the work St. Francis is asking.

These turbulent times—a phrase that is only over-used because it so aptly describes this season of our lives—calls for God’s Instruments of Peace to stop and reflect, to ask for personal healing, and to step into the world that so needs these Instruments now, so desperately!

—The Rev. Canon Tony Moon, PhD

St. Augustine’s, Oklahoma City

What’s in a Word?

“This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one's life for one's friends.”

—John 15: 12-13   

The etymology of the English word sacrifice, according to Merriam Webster, comes from the Latin word sacrificium ‘sacrifice,’ from sacr-, sacer ‘sacred’ and -ficium, from facere ‘to do, make.’ Sacrifice in this sense means ‘to make sacred’. Imagine if you will one aspect of your life. Take your relationship with a significant other, for instance. What if you ask, “How can I make this relationship sacred?” If this became the lens through which you navigated your relationship, can you imagine how differently you might make decisions? In this sense it is related to the ancient understanding of sacrifice; I offer (sacrifice) my relationship up to God, to be set apart as sacred, as holy. This way of “offering” is a stance of humility in knowing that all that we have are gifts from God rather than something we are entitled to, that we claim as “mine”. We have, instead, a perspective that realizes the holiness and sacredness in all experiences, in all of creation.

To make sacred means acknowledging and engaging the other who invites you into community, which means risking an experience of vulnerability; because there is nothing you can do to make your future safe and secure enough, but you can show up for your life and practice the art of “setting apart” as sacred every precious moment.

Prayer:  Holy God, you have already made all things sacred.  Open our eyes to see the sacredness in every moment and to offer, to sacrifice, all that we are, all that we have, and all that will be so that all might come to know the sacredness of your Love.  Amen.

—The Rev. Tammy Wooliver

St. Luke’s, Ada

Deepening the Practice of Gratitude

“I invite you, therefore, in the name of the Church, to the observance of a holy Lent, by self-examination and repentance…” (BCP, 265)

One of the gifts of the Spiritual Exercises by Ignatius is the practice of Examen. One way to review the previous 24 hours is to ask, “What am I grateful for?” and “What am I not grateful for?”

Several years ago, I uncovered that it was a lot easier for me to think of those things I wasn’t grateful for. I started a practice of recording three things I am grateful for each day…and I try not to repeat myself during a month. This practice has opened my eyes to see more and to be grateful for more.

Here are some questions to increase the depth, frequency, and breadth of gratitude.

1.     How intensely do I experience my moments of gratitude?

2.     How often do I pause to consider the blessings and gifts in my life?

3.     Are there any gaps in my awareness because I tend to take events, people and things for granted?

4.     Do I spend enough time thinking about all the people who, in some way or another, have contributed to my experiences? Do I thank them? 

Recently, I have experimented with another fun way of being thankful: thinking of three things each day based on each succeeding letter of the alphabet. I set myself the goal of recording three things I had never thanked God for before, for example:

A = arms, armadillos, ants

E = eyelids, eclipses, elephants

L = lanyards, lice, line workers

I found savoring a letter per day increased my sense of anticipation. I doodled little illustrations, as well.

If your self-examination leads you to discover that you are more a “glass half-empty” person, consider repenting through the practice of gratitude.

—The Rev. Susanne Methven

Saint Simeon’s Senior Community

Avoiding Fake News

Our society runs on the narrative of scarcity—capitalism tells us there isn’t enough to go around, so you’d better grab all you can for yourself. But the vision our entire Gospel message points to is one of abundance; with God there is always enough for everyone to thrive, if resources are distributed equitably. Scarcity is not a value in God’s family. Scarcity is fake news in God’s Kingdom.

Since our culture tells us there’s never enough, I think it’s easy for us to ‘do’ Lent wrong. When we experience Lent as a season of deprivation, for the sake of suffering, we’re missing the point. There is no shortage of scarcity, but for most of us in the pews, it’s probably not a lack of food or shelter, but a shortage of connection, belonging, self-worth, and love.  The purpose of Lent isn’t to dwell on our sinfulness and suffering for the sake of enduring discomfort. The purpose is to prepare us to be born again, on Easter, by engaging in the life Christ, moving us toward an eternal, full, loving relationship with God and all of creation.

Lent calls us to die to the things that get in the way of being born again into God’s abundance, and prepares us to receive the gifts God has deemed us worthy of.

One of my Lenten practices is to get a little taste of scarcity by fasting from 7pm to 7am. I typically snack a lot in the evening; I have a hard time leaving the mixed nuts and chips alone. My choice to avoid snacking isn’t because I want to be hungry and miserable, but instead to remind me of God’s abundance. Each time the urge to snack hits, I’m reminded many people feel this way all the time, and I thank God I am able to fill my hunger in the morning.  

My Lenten scarcity is a reminder of God’s abundance. While I may lose a few pounds by not snacking at night, by fasting I haven’t tried to put to rest anything that’s getting in the way of receiving God’s grace. So, this year I’m going to try and give up shame along with my salty evening treats.

Whether shame is directed at ourselves or others, it is a destructive emotion. Shame and guilt are two different things: guilt is feeling bad about what you’ve done; shame is feeling bad about who you are. Shame robs us of the dignity God freely deems all of us worthy of, regardless of the guilt or worthiness our deeds. Shame is a feeling we carry around that tells us, we or others, have come up short and aren’t worthy. Shame leads us to a scarcity of the things we are often lacking: connection, belonging, self-worth, and love.

I’m certain I won’t be able to rid myself of shame in 40 days, but by practicing I hope to get a glimpse of what a life without shame—and the fear associated with it—could be like. I think shame-free living will give me a taste, not of scarcity, but of the abundant life God has in store for me. This year for Lent, join me, practice scarcity—give up chocolate, wine, cussing, or whatever you wish. But I pray we will also try to give up something that’s blocking us from receiving God’s abundance like fear, the desire to control, shame, loathing, anger, or self-harm.

I pray that whatever Lenten practices we undertake, they leave us with more and not less, lead us away from the scarcity preached by our culture and toward the abundance preached by the Gospel…

 …and prepare us to be born again on Easter.

—The Rev. Stephen Miller, D.D.S.

St. Mark’s, Perry

Lent them Eat Cake?

I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God – what is good and acceptable and perfect.

Romans 12:1-2

I’ve never been a huge fan of fruit.

When I was a boy, fruit was what my Mom made me eat instead of cake. So, when my wife and I embarked on a diet a few years ago that placed a heavy emphasis on eating fresh fruits and vegetables, I was less than enthusiastic. But I wanted to be healthier, so I committed myself to apples and oranges and bananas.

But honestly, who wants to give up cake? That’s just depressing. Substituting an apple for cake borders on insulting. But I was fat and needed to change, so substitute I did.

I approached my first season of Lent much the same way. Having grown up in an evangelical church, I thought Lent was 40 days of giving up something you loved as a public display of faith. That made little sense to me. Those first few diet days were difficult, as were the first few days of Lent. They required a discipline and maturity that I am ashamed to say I really had to work to cultivate within myself. But—in both cases—I began to notice changes relatively quickly.

In the case of the diet, it was a burgeoning a taste for fruit. As my taste developed, so did my appreciation. I found that mango, though difficult to prepare, was delicious. Kiwi made my mouth water; and my old nemesis strawberry became my breakfast cereal’s best friend. I didn’t give up on cake entirely, but my horizons were definitely expanding.

And I felt better.

I had more energy.

I started to lose weight.

I began to see the benefit of fruit.

That first Lenten season was similar.

One of the conditions I placed upon myself was that I would not share with anyone what form my Lenten fast would take. This was between me and God. Little did I realize how that would impact my life. That first Lenten fast provoked questions—all of which I directed to God. One of the first places I went for answers was to the account of Jesus’ 40 days in the wilderness:

Jesus, “fasted forty days and forty nights, and afterwards he was famished. 3 The tempter came and said to him, ‘If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.’ 4 But he answered, ‘It is written,

‘One does not live by bread alone,
    but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.’” Matthew 4:2-4

That first Lenten’ fast drew me out of myself, and this world, and closer to God in a way I had not experienced before. In denying myself, I made room for the Holy Spirit to renew my mind. Through the discipline of the Lenten’ fast, I let go of the familiar, the routine, the old way, and made room for something new. I turned from the cake of my old life to the fruit of the Spirit. (See what I did there?)

The physical act of fasting was one way of making my body a living sacrifice. I turned myself over to my Father as a sacrifice to him, which Romans 12:1 tells me is my “spiritual worship.” He honored that sacrifice, and continues to honor it, by feeding with His word and sustaining me with His Spirit.

Lent isn’t just fasting and ascetic behaviors, it’s about renewal. As you enter this season, I encourage you to find ways to open your heart and mind to the Holy Spirit through the fast. Enter this season expectantly, prayerfully and humbly. Take this opportunity to let go of your world and be transformed by your Father in Heaven.

Let us strive to truly desire the fruit of the Spirit through the renewing of our minds.

—The Rev. Michael Clements

St. John’s, Durant

Pray, the Hours

In my years at St. Luke’s, Bartlesville—and now at St. Bede’s, Westport—I have encouraged people to add spiritual disciplines and resources during Lent.  One of the most meaningful resources is Practicing His Presence by and about Brother Lawrence and Frank Laubach.  This ten-dollar book will help enrich your spirituality in surprising ways.  This could also be said for “Praying the Hours with the Chalice of the Heart.”  This spiritual tool came out of a Spiritual Discipline Group at St. Luke’s and the influence of Sister Macrina Wiederkehr’s Seven Sacred Pauses.  May you indeed have a Holy Lent.

Praying the Hours with the Chalice of the Heart

Praying the Hours is a way to practice the Presence of God throughout the day.  The times do not need to be exact but may be adjusted to circumstances.  The words are intended to prompt prayers of the heart.  When possible allow a few minutes of silence after reading the prayer.

Night

Holy One, in the darkness of this night let me cradle the Chalice of my Heart with peaceful anticipation of tomorrow.  Hold, cleanse, restore and prepare me with your grace even as I sleep.  May your Spirit even now be consecrating the wine and me for another day.  Amen.

Morning (may choose one)

Gracious God, Creator of all including me, I am grateful for a new day.  Before I give thought to what I will face today, fill the Chalice of my Heart with joy and wonder.  Bless me with renewed confidence that I am loveable and capable as one of your beloved.  As I take the first sip in the morning light, give me vision, courage and grace for this day.  Amen.

Lord Christ, as I set out on this day let me drink deeply from the Chalice of my Heart which you have filled to the brim.  Let your love flow freely in my mind, body and soul so I will be fully ready for the opportunities and encounters ahead of me.  As I live into your love, help me remember to slowly sip and sip and sip so I may live and love and live and love.  Amen.

Midmorning

Lover of All, guide me in offering the Chalice of my Heart for others to drink and know they are loved by you and by me.  Let me not withhold nor neglect, but freely lift the Cup of Life for those persons I don’t like or with whom I disagree or who have hurt me or who are simply different than me or not known by name.  May my life be a sacrament to everyone.  Amen

Midday

Sacrificial Gift, fill the Chalice of my Heart again with sacrificial love and teach me at this noon hour how to give myself for you to others.  The day has been busy and there is much more to come.  May your love abound more and more as courage and compassion that blesses others through me continually – with no exceptions.  Amen 

Midafternoon

Divine Presence, give me Wisdom in handling the Chalice of my Heart as I drink and as I share your perpetual sacrament.  Focus my senses and spirit that I may finish the day well.  Let me build on what I have experienced of you and find new freedom to grow in your grace.  Amen.

Evening

Lord Jesus, the day is about over and the light of day is yielding to the light of night.  In the Chalice of my Heart, your light glimmers on the wine of your love and I am filled with hope.  Your presence throughout the day was steadfast even when my mind wandered and I seemed unaware.  It was then that you nudged me to drink again.  I smiled to myself and leaned forward again to sip, love and live.  I am grateful.  Amen

Retiring

Oh God of Life, my life, let me drink one more time from the Chalice of my Heart so I may rest in peace.  As I remember the day and encounters along the way, I am filled with gratitude.  Truly your steadfast love never ends.  Now let me sleep intoxicated with your love as we prepare for another day.  Amen.

—The Rev. Dr. Lee T. Stephens

St. Bede’s, Westport