Fargo Forum Article

I was quoted in the Oct. 7th issue of the Fargo Forum regarding the search for the new Poet Luareate of Minnesota.


Minn. to fill top job for poet

By Sherri Richards
srichards@forumcomm.com
Valley R&R - 10/07/2007

The Land of 10,000 Lakes is finally naming the first poet laureate of the state. Who the writer will be is still matter of fate.

OK, it’s actually a rather thorough nominating process that will involve much finer poetry than that. But creating the official honorary position of Minnesota’s poet laureate has been long awaited.

Gov. Tim Pawlenty’s veto of a 2005 bill to establish a state poet laureate was roundly panned in the literary world -- particularly for his reasoning. At the time, the governor said creating the position could lead to calls for other laureate positions. “We could also see requests for a state mime, interpretive dancer or potter,” he wrote.

The proposal was revisited in 2007, and this time received an approving swipe of the pen.
Nominations are being sought through the end of October. A nominating committee will present three “commended poets” to Pawlenty in December. The governor will then name the poet laureate in a public ceremony.

We asked local poets and people in-the-know about who they would like to see as Minnesota’s preeminent poet.

Thom Tammaro, English professor, Minnesota State University Moorhead: Jim Moore, Patricia Hampl and Robert Bly, all of the Twin Cities, and Bill Holm of Minneota.
“These are people who have a long and dedicated history of being active in the poetry scene in Minnesota. I think they would certainly represent the position well,” Tammaro says.
“Each would probably have an interesting project that would help raise the profile of poetry and writing in general in the state.”

The Rev. Jamie Parsley, associate poet laureate of North Dakota and Episcopal priest: Robert Bly, Bill Holm and Mark Vinz of Moorhead.
“I think a poet laureate of any sort, if they’re of a particular state, really needs to represent that state in some way, shape or form, and also needs to further an appreciation for arts in that state,” Parsley says. “All three of those have done that in a way. ￂﾅ You look at them and you think, ‘That’s Minnesota.’ ”

Anne Fredine, Moorhead Public Library director: Robert Bly, Mark Vinz and Thom Tammaro of Moorhead.
From the library’s perspective, Fredine said she thinks about whose works are often checked out or used in some way.
“Those three come to mind right away,” Fredine says. “I know that their books are well-used in the library.”

Greg Danz, owner, Zandbroz Variety: Mark Vinz, Bill Holm, Barton Sutter of Duluth, Minn., and Robert Bly.
Danz can also think of several good young poets in the state, such as Juliet Patterson of Minneapolis, but realizes the poet laureate likely needs to be someone with a longstanding reputation, such as the four he mentioned.
“I think part of being a poet laureate is being able to go out and promote ￂﾅ just the ability to be engaging in public and a promoter of the literary arts.”

Mark Vinz, Moorhead, associate poet laureate of North Dakota: Robert Bly.
“The only poet laureate I could see for Minnesota would be Robert Bly. He has the stature; he’s certainly the senior poet in the state. I would be in favor of him. I’m not generally in favor of competitions between poets, but if there has to be one, I would say Robert Bly.”

Larry Woiwode, Mott, N.D., poet laureate of North Dakota since 1995: Louise Erdrich and Heid Erdrich, both of the Twin Cities (“Louise has said Heid is the better poet, but I don’t know. I really like Louise’s poetry, but Heid has a good wit.”), and Mark Vinz.

Woiwode is more than happy to welcome a neighboring poet laureate. After Pawlenty’s 2005 veto, Woiwode hosted a congress of standing poet laureates from across the U.S. He said it was unfortunate that one couldn’t simply cross the Red River to attend.

At that event, he read this passage that sums up the need for a state poet laureate:
“Most poets are rooted in the natural world, spokespersons for the inarticulate in nature, as well as the wordless desires of the common person -- or poets should be searching for words for those sides of the world. And most poets are committed politically, in one way or another, able to present their views in a memorable matrix of words; they can, in this function of their office, serve as a governing conscience of a gone-soft state.”

Readers can reach Forum reporter
Sherri Richards at (701) 241-5525

19 Pentecost

Oct. 7, 2007
All Saints Episcopal Church
Valley City, ND

Luke 17.5-10

“Increase our faith!” the apostles ask Jesus in today’s Gospel. And two thousand years later, we—Jesus disciples now—are still asking him to do that for us as well.

It’s an honest prayer. We want our faith increased. We want to believe more fully than we do. We want to believe in a way that will eliminate doubt. And we are afraid that with little faith and a lot of doubt, doubt will win out.

We are crying out to Jesus—like those first apostles—for more than we have. But Jesus—in that way that Jesus does—turns it all back on us. He tells us that we shouldn’t be worrying about increasing our faith. We should be concerned about the mustard seed of faith that we have right now.

Think of that for a moment. Think of what a mustard seed is. It’s one of the smallest things we can see. It’s a minuscule thing. It’s the side of a period at the end of a sentence or a dot on a lower-case i. It is that small.

Jesus tells us that with that little bit of faith—that small amount of real faith—we can tell a mulberry tree, “be uprooted and planted in the sea.” In other words, those of us who are afraid that a whole lot of doubt can overwhelm that little bit of faith have nothing to worry about. Because even a little bit of faith—even a mustard seed of faith—is more powerful than an ocean of doubt.

A little seed of faith is the most powerful thing in the world, because that tiny amount of faith will drive us and push us and motivate us to do incredible things. And doing those things, spurred on and nourished by that little bit of faith, does make a difference in the world.
But we do occasionally have to ask ourselves, “Why are we doing these things?” Because that is the real heart of today’s Gospel reading: Why are we doing what we do? Why do we do what we do as Christians? Are we coming to church on Sunday, or being kind to people, or praying, or attempting to live out our Gospel life of attempting to bring the Kingdom of God into our midst simply because we are looking for a reward? Are we doing the things we do as Christians simply because we believe there is someone somewhere marking down everything we do and hoping that, when the time comes, our good deeds will outweigh our bad and we can go to heaven? Or are we doing we are doing—attempting in whatever small ways we can—to bring the Kingdom of God into our lives and the lives of those around us—simply because Jesus tells us this is what we must do?

Because what we should be saying, when we live as Christians—when we love God and love each other as ourselves—“we’ve done only what we have ought to done.” And that is the message we take away from our Gospel reading.

We should, in some sense, live our Christianity without any sense of reward. We should do the good things in our lives blindly, mindlessly. Now, when I say mindlessly, I don’t mean stupidly, nor am I saying we should make ourselves dumb. I am using the word mindless here in the same sense that Buddhists would use that word. In Buddhism and in most forms of meditation, one of the instructions is to “clear one’s mind.” That’s what we should do as Christians. We should clear our minds of everything expect doing what we ought to do. We should do what we ought to do for the sole intention of doing good and not for the intention of receiving something in return for what we do.

Because the fact is, our place in the next world—our place in the heaven, with God—isn’t going to be guaranteed by the things we do. If it did, that might not be such a bad thing, really. I mean, certainly, we could almost expect that we would have a place. All we would have to do is go feed some needy people at the Salvation Army or at a soup kitchen. We could just go and give some money to the homeless. We could go and visit the sick, or act nice and friendly all the time and smile at people. We could go to church every Sunday and pray and fast and study the Bible. And all of those things are good things—things we SHOULD be doing.

But we sometimes have to reevaluate why we are doing those things. We have to face the fact sometimes that we do those things to help bring the Kingdom of God about in our midst, but we don’t do those things just because we think we are going to get a personal reward for them.
But then the big question does arise: what do we need to get to heaven? And the answer is not what we expect. It’s easy for us to think: the big things are what get us to heaven. The things other people can see—or the things God—way up there—can see. But the things that win us our salvation are the small things.

The thing that wins us our salvation is faith. And all it takes is faith the size of a mustard seed.
A few weeks ago, in one my classes at the University of Mary, we were discussing what it means to be a Christian. As I’ve preached here many times, I truly believe that what it means to be a Christian is to love God, and to love our neighbors as ourselves. This is what the Gospel is based on. Jesus is clear again and again: this is what salvation is based on. And certainly—when we look at these two factors—loving God and loving our neighbors as ourselves—seem at one moment, gigantic and yet, at the same, miniscule.

As we were discussing this in class, the subject of the faith of one of the students—one of my favorite students—came up. This student, who has taken every course I teach, who has passed every one these courses with flying colors, has also been very honest about his faith: he is an atheist. He simply does not nor cannot believe in God. For him, there is not even a mustard seed of faith in God. For him, when he looks outward, at the world around him, he sees no God. And when he looks deep within him, he cannot imagine there being any God. And yet, this kid is one of most compassionate, nicest people you’ve ever met.

Now, of course, as I’ve just said, being nice isn’t going to get us into heaven. But, he does do one thing that can get us into heaven: He loves his neighbor as himself. He has worked hard to put himself through school and to work in the ambulance business. His reasons for working as an Emergency Technician are simple: he does it because he wants to help people, because he legitimately cares for people. He doesn’t do this for any personal reward—he certainly never brags about the work he does—and we are certain he does not do this job because he thinks he’s going to get a reward in heaven.

As we discussed the Great Commandments of loving God and loving one’s neighbor as one’s self, he piped up one night and said, “I get that last part—the neighbor part. That’s no problem for me. But it’s the first part I can get.”

I countered with this: “If you’re doing the second part—if you’re loving your neighbor as yourself—then you’re doing the first part too.”

“Excuse me?” he said. “What do you mean by that?”

I said, “You can’t do one without the other. You can’t love your neighbor as your self without loving God. And you can’t love God without loving your neighbor as yourself. If you are loving your neighbor as yourself, if you serving them out of love and nothing else, with no thought of reward, then you are love God as well. Because we truly do believe that in serving others, we are serving God.” And I can’t help but believe that God sees this as well.

This student’ faith might not be in what he considers a supernatural being, but it is in doing small things for others without any thought of reward. His faith in loving his neighbor as himself really is faith as well in the God, who dwells with us and in us. By loving his neighbor as himself—be acting out of that love—he is making a major difference in the world and, in his own way, is furthering the Kingdom of God in our midst.

And that is what we are truly called to do as Christians. That is what it means to be a Christian. That is what loving and loving our neighbor as ourselves does. It furthers the Kingdom of God in our midst.

Now, I understand that it’s very rare that a priest will ever get up and say, “look as this atheist as an example of how to help you increase your faith.” But I think God does work in that way sometimes. I have no doubt that God can increase our faith my any means necessary. I have no doubt that God can work even in the mustard-sized faith found deep within someone who claims to be an atheist. And if God can do that in the life and example of an atheist, imagine what God can do in your life—in you, who are a Christian.

So, cultivate that mustard-sized faith inside you. Don’t fret over how small it is. Don’t worry about weighing on the scale against the doubt in your life. Don’t despair over how small it is. Realize instead that even that mustard seed of faith within you can do incredible things in your life and those around you. And in doing those small things, without thought of a personal reward for yourself, you are bringing the Kingdom of God into our midst.

Amen.

The Feast of Edward Bouverie Pusey

Sept. 19, 2007
The Chapel of the Resurrection
Gethsemane Cathedral

In the Name of God, Father, + Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.

Yesterday was the Feast of Blessed Edward Bouverie Pusey. Although it was his good friend, John Keble, who started the so-called Oxford Movement in 1833 with a sermon he preached at Oxford University, Pusey became the leader of the movement that brought what we now call Anglo Catholicism to the Anglican Church.

For most of us, the issues of High Churchmanship and Low Churchmanship are hopefully no longer issues. But what Pusey and Keble and John Henry Newman proposed in their day—rife with anti-Roman Catholic sentiment—was considered radical.

And when Edward Pusey preached about his view of the Real Presence of Jesus Christ in the Blessed Sacrament, that’s when got himself into some deep trouble. In May of 1841, he preached a sermon at Oxford with the seemingly innocent title of The Holy Eucharist, a Comfort to the Penitent. This sermon—filled with his views that Jesus was truly and clearly present in the bread and wine—so incensed people that he was suspended from preaching for two years.

Of course, it backfired in those same authorities. The sermon was later published and it ended up selling 18,000 copies.

The fact is that what Pusey preached about the presence of Christ in the Eucharist is not radical, nor is it un-Anglican. But it is sometimes a good thing to ask ourselves: What do Anglicans believe concerning the Eucharist?

As we all know, Anglicans tend to have an ambivalent view toward many things and the Eucharist is no exception. As a result, Anglicans tend to hold a wide variety of differing views. Some prefer the more “low Church” definitions, in which Christ is truly present but not in any extraordinary way. The view here is similar to the Lutheran view of consubstantiation—in which the belief is that Christ is present with the bread and the wine. It is still bread, it is still wine, and Christ is present.

The Roman Catholic view is that of transubstantiation. It no longer bread or wine—it only appears to be so. For Roman Catholics, the Bread and the Wine have been transformed into the actual Body and Blood of Christ.

For us Anglicans—we don’t necessarily define the Eucharist in either way. We simply know that Christ is present in the Bread and the Wine, although we are wary of saying how or in what way.

I am currently reading the second volume of Book of V of Richard Hooker’s Of the Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity. In this book, Hooker gives voice to what most Anglicans believe when it comes to verbal or intellectual wranglings regarding Christ’s presence in the Eucharist. He writes,

“I wish that men would more give themselves to meditate in silence what we have by the sacrament and less to dispute of the manner how?”

I personally tend to echo those immortal words of one of my personal heroes, James Dekoven. Dekoven himself was somewhat of a radical when it came to battling the powers-that-be in the Church when it came to issues of the Eucharist. Dekoven said,

“You may take away from us if you will every external ceremony; you may take away altars, and superaltars, lights and incense and vestments, and we will submit to you. But… to adore Christ's Person in His Sacrament - that is the inalienable privilege of every Christian and Catholic heart. How we do it, the way we do it, the ceremonies with which we do it, are utterly, utterly indifferent. The thing itself is what we plead for.”

I have clung to those words and found deep consolation in them over the year. For me, the matter is very much like Edward Pusey believed.

I know beyond a doubt that Christ is present in the bread and wine at the Eucharist. And like Pusey, I believe the Jesus is present in the Blessed Sacrament in the ambry here or in the tabernacle, in a monstrance held up with a host in it. And I especially believe that Christ is present in the bread and the wine when we gather here at this altar to celebrate the Mass.

My faith in the fact that Christ is present in the Eucharist has sustained me many times over the years. I have found profound and deep comfort in being able to retire at several times during the day here, to this chapel, to this ambry here, where the Blessed Sacrament is reserved. I enjoy the opportunity to enter into Christ’s very real and very potent Presence here. I enjoy those occasions, in which I can take the Body and Blood of Christ to parishioners and others who ask for it and are comforted and upheld by it. I take comfort in knowing that Christ’s physical presence is just that close that I can turn to Him in those moments and find Him near. And in those holy moments in which I spend adoring, contemplating or simply being in His presence, issues of transubstantiation, consubstantiation or any other doctrines simply vaporize. In those moments, it is only my knowledge and belief that I am in the presence of holiness, that I am in the presence of the One whom I serve, whom I love and whom I believe in profoundly is enough for me.

For me, to define that Presence, to attempt to articulate and quantify it is the equivalent of trying to pin a wave upon the shore. When I ponder it too deeply, I become distracted. When I think of it for more than a few moments, I find myself led astray from my devotions. When I attempt to explain my experience with the Eucharist Lord by the standards of those doctrines, I find myself turning away from Him and the gift of His Presence that He gives.

All I know in those moments, is that it is Christ is present. When I look upon that small round host, or that loaf of consecrated bread, I see Christ’s body. When I hold it aloft at the Mass and break it, I know that the answer to my prayer—“Lord, make yourself known to me in the breaking of the bread”—has truly and wonderfully been answered, because He does. He does make himself known in the breaking of the bread. Because He is there.

When I look into that chalice and I see that deep dark rich wine, I see Christ’s Precious Blood and I know that it is Him. And when I eat of that Body and drink of that Blood, I know that for that moment in my life, I am, in fact, truly “flesh of his flesh and bone of his bones,” as the great Bishop, John Jewel, once proclaimed.

Christ is present here. Christ comes to all of us in the bread and the wine that we consecrate here on this altar. So, take comfort in that belief. Come to the feast of this Mass, knowing that, in doing so, you come to partake in Christ’s presence, that you come partaking of His flesh and blood and that by doing so, you become his flesh and blood as well.

Christ is here. He is here for you. All we have to do is look and see and believe and taste.

Amen.

Feast of Blessed Paul Jones

The Feast of Blessed Paul JonesSept. 4, 2007
The Chapel of the Resurrection
Gethsemane Episcopal Cathedral
Fargo, N.D.

John 8.31-32.
Today, we commemorate the feast of Paul Jones on the sixty-sixth anniversary of his death. Paul Jones was elected Bishop of Utah in 1914, just as World War I was breaking out. He did much as Bishop of Utah. He established preaching stations, he made others aware of what was then known as a missionary district.

But what he is best known for now, is not what he did as Bishop of Utah, but what he protested and spoke out against—namely war. In a speech in 1917, Bishop Jones did something few other people were doing at that time: he called war “unchristian.”

He went on to say, “Christians are not justified in treating the Sermon on the Mount as a scrap of paper."

Most of us no doubt shrug our shoulders when we hear that Bishop Jones protested the war. After all, we live in this post-Vietnam War era in which protesting war is just a part of out culture, whether we agree with it or not. But in 1918, protesting America’s involvement in war was considered unpatriotic and calling war unchristian was considered unbecoming of an Episcopal bishop. If fact, it was so scandalous, that Bishop Jones that, because of his statement, he was asked by the House of Bishops to resign, which he did, in the spring of 1918.

On resigning, he wrote, “I believe that the methods of modern international war are quite incompatible with the Christian principles of reconciliation and brotherhood, and that it is the duty of a Bishop of the Church, from his study of the word of God, to express himself on questions of righteousness, no matter what opinion may stand in the way."


Bishop Jones, whether you agree with his position on war or not, is still a great example for all of us Christians. He stood up for his convictions and lived by them no matter what anyone else thought. He truly lived out the words of Jesus from our Gospel reading this evening—

“If you hold to my teaching, you are my disciples. Then you will know the truth and the truth will set you free.”
He lived out to those words and that conviction to be a disciple of Christ, even to the point of stepping down from a position to which he felt called.

Occasionally, in our lives, we must live out the words of Jesus from tonight’s Gospel much as Bishop Jones did. We, as Christians, are called to know the truth and in knowing the truth, we know that the truth is truly freeing.

For Paul Jones, he knew the truth. For him, he could not reconcile the fact that one can still fight in a war and be a Christian. He did not feel that one can truly love God and love one’s neighbor as one’s self and still condone war. For Bishop Jones, this was the ultimate truth. And although he had to give up everything, he lived his life in truth to himself.

Paul Jones is ultimately an example to all of us for two reasons. On one hand, he represents in a powerful way that Christians who are pacifists should be respected for their views. It is easy to see war as unchristian. There is nothing beautiful about war. And for those people who have been through war, they know how horrible unchristian it can be. The fact is, whenever war breaks out in the world, we as Christians need to examine ourselves and our convictions deeply before we either condone or condemn the actions of that war. We need to return to the Sermon on the Mount and Jesus’ blessing of the peacemakers, and we need to return to the commandments of loving God and loving our neighbors as ourselves. I’m not saying we should all be pacifists. I think there is such thing as a justified war. But I do believe any decisions we as Christians make about war need to be made with prayerfulness, deliberation and keeping intact our faith in Christ who calls to love not hate, to peace not violence, to life not death.

Paul Jones is an example for a second reason: He lived out his Christian convictions deeply and thoroughly, against great odds. And just because society at that time condemned him for his views, in the long run, he has prevailed. When we look at the Bishops who were seated in the House of Bishops in 1918, we probably don’t remember many of them now. We certainly don’t commemorate them as saints. But here we have Paul Jones. 66 years after his death, we are commemorating him and discussing him still. In this time of war, many Christians look to him as one of the many pacifists who paved the way for them to be able to speak out against war. And for all of us, Paul Jones helps instill in us the courage to stand up for our convictions, no matter how unpopular they may seem by society as a whole.

And even there, we find a lesson for all of us: God can take a perceived defeat, like being forced to resign as Bishop, and can use that defeat as an ultimate triumph. That is a wonderful lesson for us as well. Even our failures can be turned to God’s ultimate glory in the end.

So, let us remember Bishop Paul Jones and let us do him honor by standing up for the Truth. Like Bishop Jones, hold to the teachings of Christ as you see them and as you live them out in your life. And know that the Truth of those convictions in Christ will, without doubt, set you free.

14 Pentecost

September 2, 2007
All Saints Episcopal Church
Valley City, ND

Luke 14:1, 7-14

For those us who were listening closely to this morning’s Gospel, we might find ourselves struggling a bit with Jesus’ words. And if we aren’t struggling—if those words don’t make us uncomfortable—then maybe we should be. They are uncomfortable words, after all. He is making clear to us that, if we neglect the least among us, if we put ourselves first, we are putting ourselves in jeopardy. What we do here on earth—in this life—does make a difference. It makes a difference here, and it makes a difference in the next world. It makes a difference with those we neglect. And it makes a difference with God.

So, we should take heed. We shouldn’t neglect those who are least among us. But probably the most difficult aspect of our Gospel today is when Jesus summarized everything in that all-too-familiar maxim:

“For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

Jesus is not pulling any punches here. He is clear as day. Humble yourselves. If you do so, you will be exalted. If you are arrogant and full of yourself, you will be humbled.

I think, humility and pride are too often huge issues for all of us Christians, whether we are laypeople or clergy. For those of us who have spent a good part of lives in church, we have known too many arrogant, self-centered, conceited Christians in our lives. They sometimes are on the Vestry, in the pews, in the kitchen, or in the pulpit.

Pride is ugly. It doesn’t do anyone any good, especially the prideful one. But to be fair, it’s easy enough to do. It’s easy enough to fall in that ugly trap of pride. When we encounter those prideful Christians, we need to be careful how we deal with them. Because we need to remind ourselves: “there but for the grace of God, go we.” Sometimes, the most prideful Christian we encounter, isn’t in the Vestry, or the pews, or the kitchen or the pulpit. Sometimes, the most prideful Christian we know is the one we find staring back at us from the mirror.

Pride is an easy trap to fall into as Christians. We know we are loved by God. We also know we, as Christians, through our Baptisms, have a special place in relation to God. It’s easy sometimes to feel smug and self-assured. And when we are fully immersed in Church work, it’s easy for us to think that the success or failure of the ministry of the Church depends on us. We’ve all heard it, “If I didn’t do it, who would?” We’ve all said it. “If I didn’t do it, everything will fall apart.” And sometimes, this might be true.

But, it is a dangerous road to take when we start thinking everything revolves around us. And for clergy, they are in an even more vulnerable place. I will admit, I find myself falling into the pride trap on occasion. But I am, at the same time, lucky in some ways. I have a circle of family and friends who put me in my place very quickly whenever I find my head getting a little too big for its own good. Whether it be my parents, my friends and colleagues, or any number of other people, I can always depend on them to either subtle or not so subtly remind me when I am getting a bit too big for myself.

As clergy, we occasionally find ourselves being praised and treated with a sometimes undeserved respect. And although I have found my vocation to the priesthood a very humbling experience, there are times when we might find ourselves feeling very smug over a job well done. That’s true with all of us, as Christians.

A few weeks ago, I was feeling not so much prideful or smug, but simply good about my duties as a priest. I was at the Cathedral, doing two Masses that day. At the second Mass, I baptized the beautiful baby daughter of a couple I married over a year before. I also preached a sermon on baptism (one of my favorite topics) that received many wonderful, glowing comments from people. It was one of those perfect Sunday mornings and as I left the Cathedral that morning, I admit I felt like I had done a good job. And I felt the creeping edges of pride coming up inside me. To be honest, it felt good.

It was about that time when, as I approached my car, I saw it had been vandalized once again. As I shared with you before, my car had been vandalized in May on three different occasions by a disgruntled bi-polar cross dresser who has been hanging around the Cathedral. Having done almost $3,000 worth of damage then, I had my car repainted and was putting the incident behind me when here it happened again. Here, in front of me, was my car with the same pattern of scratches, the same amount of damage. And with it, the same sinking sense of frustration.

I came away from that perfect morning feeling as though I had been punched in the stomach. To call this a humbling experience was an understatement.

But this is what it means to be a Christian sometimes. It means experiencing those highs, knowing full well that we must also experience the lows as well and knowing that Christ is with us in highs as well as the lows.

It’s easy to fall into that ugly trap of believing everything is about us. It’s easy to convince ourselves that the world revolves around us and only us. Life, after all, is a matter of perspective. And from our perspective, everything else does in fact revolve around us.

Our job as Christians is to change that perspective. Our job as Christians is to, always and everywhere, put Christ first. It is not all about us. We are just a breath. We are just a blink of the eye in the larger scheme of things. We are born, we live, we die. And then we are gone. And, without Christ, that is all we are. There is no hope, there is no future, there is no us, without Christ. Christ gives us our definition. Christ gives us our identity. Christ gives us our purpose. This is what it means to be a Christian.

And this is what Jesus is getting at today, when he talks about the humble being exalted. Who knows better than Jesus about humility? He, who humbled himself by becoming one of us, who humbled himself to the point of actually being betrayed, humiliated and murdered, knew a few things about humility. But, we don’t have to let pride win out in the end.

I have found a very helpful exercise based on a saying by one of my personal heroes, the priest and poet, Blessed George Herbert. George Herbert would pray, each time he preached, that he would be the window pane through which the Light of Christ might shine. I love that image. And we can do so much with it. The idea of being a window through which the light of Christ shines is wonderful for us. Because we realize that no matter how dirty the pane is, no matter how cracked or warped the glass might be, Christ’s light can always shine through. We don’t have to be the clear, clean window pane. We only need to be enough of a pane that Christ’s light will get through in some way. And by letting Christ’s light shine through us, we are truly putting Christ first. That is really our job as Christians.

So, when you find yourself falling into the pride trap, stop and remind yourself to put Christ first. When you find yourself seeing the world as revolving around you, stop and remind yourself that Christ is at the center of your life and, as such, your world in fact revolves around Christ. When you find yourself shining with the glow of self-pride and self-contentment, remember that the light shining through you is not your light, but the light of Christ and that any reflection others have of your works are accomplished only through that light. When you find yourself becoming prideful, stop and listen to the voice of Christ as he says to you, “those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

Because, Christ wants you to be exalted. Christ wants to exalt you. But this can only happen when you come before Christ as his humble servant, as his humble disciple, as his humble friend. This can only happen when you place Christ at the forefront of your life.

So, put Christ first. Humble yourself before Christ. And let the light of Christ shine through you in all that you do.

Amen.

Slash

I recently had my car vandalized (for the second time) by a disgruntled bi-polar crossdresser who has been loitering at the Cathedral for the last few months (I couldn't make this up if I wanted to). To say the very least, it was a sobering experience, despite it being almost Kafkaesque.

Here's a poem that came out of that experience:


Slash

1.

The raw-faced young deputy—
his grim jaw set just so—
says, “That’s

hatred, there. That’s
violence.” The other slashes
only mimic

this one, which
floats in its
tan background as

a storm-driven horizon
does. It glares back
white and deep

where the grooves
of his key
went in—

he, who
lurks, creeping
about like a stench

or a spreading
stain
on an otherwise white carpet.

And all of it
on this car that
is, in its simplest presence,

me, or an ikon of
me at least—
a symbol of whatever

he, flouncing about
in his Lane Bryant skirts, saw
and despised.

I ache over it
the way I ache
over wasps’ nests

or bats. I ache!
but set my teeth—
one against the other—

and wish not
for violence
or vengeance

but for… accountability?
for admission? or acknowledgement?
of what he’s done—

for the humility
wrought
unasked for

on me to be
wrought on him—
the one who

held the key
and set its grooves
not once

or twice
but three times
into the paint,

leaving scars
behind it
undulating

like the scales
of a song we sing
only on occasions we dread.


2.

I could go on forever with this terror—
this sullen anxiety that dogs me. In bed,
the humming fan lulls the sheets,

the pillows, but not me. I awake, dreaming
he has snuck up on me with a knife—
or, on worse nights, a gun—

and, still half-asleep, feel myself
go dizzy not with the pain of it
or even the shock of violence

but with the loss of my blood,
spreading hot and thick
like natal gunk around me.

My friend—the Reiki master—
tells me, “He’ll crash and burn
the middle of the Fall.” But

it’s only August. And who’s to say
the crash and fall won’t come
after I’ve been laid low and left

in the grass, grasping at that spilling
heat which pours from me with
every heartbeat? Who says I won’t be

crying out—like the voice
in my dream—to the rain, like the nun on
the sinking Deutschland, crying,

“O Christ, Christ,” in English
as dying Aelred did because he loved
the word best in English?

“O Christ!” I sing in the night
“Christ!” as that man—it’s a man!—
a man in his absurd broom skirt,

his foul stink still in my throat,
bounds for the rain-slick pavement
as deftly as a dancer too big for his tiny feet.

Clarke Bassett Memorial Eucharist

The Memorial Eucharist for
J. Clarke Bassett
(Jan. 29, 1928 – Aug. 25, 2008)
Mon. August 27, 2007
The Chapel of the Resurrection
Gethsemane Episcopal Cathedral
Fargo, North Dakota

Hebrews 12.18-29
I am happy to be here this morning to commemorate the life of Clarke Bassett and to commend this wonderful man to God. I only got to meet Clarke twice, once the week before last and once again last Thursday. The first time we shared Holy Communion together, which was beautiful and, on that occasion, I anointed him. The second time we just shared a prayer together. But, on that last occasion, I got to see a glimpse, I think, of the real Clarke. He was bright and cheery and fully aware of everything. And he was definitely happy to see me. It was good for me to see him like that.

Now I suspect that if Clarke were here this morning, he would not want me to be up here making him out to be some kind of saint. But I can say that I am very happy to have met Clarke and to have walked with him just a little while anyway.

And I have no doubt that Clarke is with us here this morning. I am of the belief that what separates us who are alive and breathing here on earth from those who are now in the so-called “nearer presence of God” is a thin one. And because of that belief, I take a certain comfort in the fact Clarke is close to us this morning. He is here, in our midst, celebrating his life with us.
And we should truly celebrate his life. It was a life full of meaning and purpose. And, although it is no doubt hard to face the fact that we are distances from him, we can take some consolation in the fact that although Clarke has shed this so-called “mortal coil,” he has now entered into that presence of God.

In our reading today from Hebrews we hear God described as a “consuming fire.” I love that image. Oftentimes in the Bible, we find God appearing to humans in the form of fire or surrounded by flames. When God appears to Moses as a fire in the Burning Bush, Moses is frightened by it, but the Voice that speaks to Moses from the fire is a soothing and consoling one. Likewise, when the Israelites were freed from bondage in Egypt, they went into the desert led by God who appeared to them as a Pillar of Fire. Even at the Resurrection of Christ, we find that after the gloom and darkness of Jesus’ death on the cross on that miserable Friday afternoon, on Easter Sunday morning, Christ appears as a burning light—as blinding fire of glory—which burns away the darkness of death and fear.

What this shows us is that God is a God who is more than just some benevolent being sitting on a distant throne in heaven. God is a God of energy—sometimes frightening energy—but energy nonetheless. God is a God who acts in our lives, who comes into our midst like a “consuming fire” and burns way all of those things that might separate us from God. And as frightening as this image is of God—a consuming fire can be frightening, it consumes, it burns—we also know God is a God consumed with a fire of love and goodness.

What I love about being an Episcopalian is that our Prayer Book helps us to articulate what we believe. Whenever I am asked, “What do Episcopalians believe?” I say, “We believe what we pray.” We’re not big on dogma and rules. We’re not caught up in the letter of the law or preaching a literal interpretation of the Bible. But we are big on liturgy and prayer and worship. Our Prayer Book in many ways defines what we believe. And so when I’m asked “What do Episcopalians believe about life after death?” I say, “Look at our Prayer Book. Look at what it says. And that is what we believe."

Later in this service, we will all pray the same words together. As we commend Clarke to Christ’s loving and merciful arms, we will pray,

Give rest, O Christ, to your servant with your saints,
where sorrow and pain are no more,
neither sighing, but life eternal.
It is easy for us to say those words without really thinking about them. But those are not light words. Those are words that take on deeper meaning for us now than maybe at any other time. Where Clarke is now—in those caring and able hands of Christ—there is no sorrow or pain. There is no sighing. But there is life eternal. It is a time in which, even at the grave, we—whoa re left behind—can make our song of alleluia. Because we know that Clarke and all our loved ones have been received into Christ’s arms of mercy, into Christ’s “blessed rest of everlasting peace.”
This is what we cling to on a day like today. This is where we find our strength. This what gets us through this temporary—and I stress it is temporary—separation from Clarke. We know that—despite the pain and the frustration, despite the sorrow we all feel—somehow, in the end, Christ is with us and Christ is with Clarke and that makes all the difference. For Clarke, sorrow and pain are no more. Rather, Clarke has life eternal.

And that is what awaits us as well. We might not be able to say “Alleluia” with any real enthusiasm today. But we can find a glimmer of light—of that all consuming fire of God—in the darkness of this day. And in that burning, consuming fire is Christ, and in that light Christ is holding Clarke firmly to himself.