Lent V

John 12:1-8
Lent 5

“You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”

WHAT?!

Could Jesus have said anything more jarring?
Our community gives a lot to the Safe Ground movement.
I help coordinate Trinity’s response to their needs. 
I know some of these people whose portraits look out at us. 
And I know that every other time Jesus spoke of poor people,
it was to bless them
and to love them.

And I know how willingly this community responds. 
I’m here on shelter nights. 
I know how gladly people give of themselves,
their time, their energy.

Jesus’ words here feel like a slap. 
They go against everything else he ever said. 
They fly in the face of his tradition. 
No self-respecting Hebrew prophet would ever say anything like that. 
And Jesus knew it.

That’s because money isn’t the point. 
Look at the rest of this scene.

We’re in the home of Mary, Martha, and Lazarus. 
Mary, the contemplative. 
The one who would rather sit at Jesus’ feet,
and take him in with her eyes and her heart,
than do anything else in the world. 
Martha, always responsible
for making the household run smoothly.
Always busy, bustling around.

Lazarus.  Brother to Mary and Martha. 
Friend to Jesus,
like a brother to him as well. 
Lazarus, whose death made Jesus weep,
and whom he had raised from the dead
sometime shortly before. 
The author of John writes
that the raising of Lazarus had caused the Temple authorities
to conspire to kill Jesus. 
Jesus knew he was in danger;
he “no longer walked about openly.” 
Mary and Martha and Lazarus knew it too.
The air was electric with danger,
heavy with the smell of impending death.

Lazarus was at the table. 
But it’s hard for me to imagine that he ate. 
He had been dead. 
And he walked the earth again.
Don't bother asking, how does that happen? 
It doesn’t.  But it did. 
I picture him doing what I imagine I would do...
just staring. 
Having to be pulled out of himself,
when the others laughed at some mundane joke. 
Unable to walk in both worlds at once. 
Still stumbling sometimes,
as if his legs and feet were still bound. 
Trailing rags behind him,
in his mind if not his body. 
When I was detoxing from chemotherapy,
I would break out into cold sweats.
No one else could smell it on me,
but I could.
Lazarus could still smell the sickness
that killed him.
He could still smell the sourness of death.

Mary is the quiet sister. 
The one who understands without being taught. 
Who always infuriates Martha,
because she leaves Martha all the work. 
Mary gets it right, again.

Mary knows how to respond
to God in her living room. 
She kneels on the floor,
breaks the jar of perfume,
and pours it over Jesus’ feet. 
Just like that. 
She moves without speaking. 
She’s silent, slow, purposeful. 
She does not ask permission. 
She doesn’t explain herself in words. 
She doesn’t need to. 
Jesus understands what Mary is doing. 
He translates for the others: 
“She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial.”

This household knows the smell of death. 
Lazarus had been in the tomb four days. 
Martha had begged Jesus not to roll away the stone.
She knew the smell would overpower them.
Jesus yelled in the face of death,
and Lazarus walked out alive.

The jar of perfume that Mary broke
held about a pound of scented oil.
That's at least a couple of good double-handfuls.
She doesn't anoint his head,
like you would do for a king
or somebody important.
She anoints his feet.
While Jesus is still living,
Mary prepares his body for burial.

She held Jesus' feet,
and she poured the oil over them.
The scent—somewhere between mint and ginseng—
exploded into the house.
The oil ran over Jesus' toes, down his ankles,
all over Mary's sleeves,
and onto the floor.
The house smelled like burial spices,
like grief, and like love,
for a long time.
Mary rubs the oil into Jesus' skin.
She wipes him dry, with her hair.

Judas sets up the point that Jesus is making.
He asks a perfectly legitimate question,
“Why was this money not given to the poor?”
Really, it was not a small amount.
Three hundred denarii would feed a family for a year.

Jesus doesn't say, don't take care of the poor.
He says only, not right now.
He says, Mary knows what you're not seeing.
Let her care for me.
He knows the law full well, and he honors God in his response.
He's quoting Deuteronomy 15:11.
The full text of the verse he alludes to is this:

“Since there will never cease to be some in need on the earth, I therefore command you, Open your heart to the poor and needy neighbor in your land.”

He's saying, While I am here in front of you, love me.
Focus first on the love that drives you,
that gives you life,
that is the reason for everything you do.
When I am gone,
you will be able to love me
by loving the poor, the homeless, and the needy.

Love extravagantly. 
Love with all you are.
The poor you always have with you—
their faces are here with us, on these walls. 
We have sheltered Carol and Barbara. 
I’ve heard stories of some of the others. 
Love these people whose portraits you see. 

Family Promise starts tonight. 
Go see if there are still times you can sign up. 
Cook dinner for our guests. 
Play games with the kids. 
Help them with their homework. 
Stay the night.

Jesus doesn't literally knock on our door
and sit at our dinner table.
We cannot serve him directly in the way that Mary did. 
But we can do what he commanded us to do. 
We can love one another, as God has loved us.
The presence of Christ lives in everyone. 
Love the people who show you to yourself. 

We have enough love. 
God has broken that jar, over us,
and given us each jars to break.
It's running over us right now,
in our hair, soaked in our skin,
dripping onto the floor.
Like Mary, pour it out without counting the cost.
Give it away. 

John Roberts, Priest

Deuteronomy 31:30–32:4, 6b-12a
John 7:37-41a

Today we honor the memory of John Roberts.
Who was he? What is his story?

John Roberts was an adventurous soul.
He was born on a farm in Wales in 1853.
He was educated at a college that was affiliated with Oxford,
and left Wales for the Bahamas in 1878.
He was ordained to the priesthood there.

Roberts was chaplain of St. Matthew’s Cathedral in Nassau,
and he also worked in leper colonies.

After two years in the Bahamas, Roberts sailed to the US.
He asked the bishop of Wyoming and Colorado for
missionary work in his most difficult field.
Bishop James Spalding gave it to him,
at the Wind River Indian Reservation
in the mountains of Wyoming.

In February, 1883,
Roberts literally hitched a ride
from Colorado to Wyoming
on a jury-rigged mail wagon,
in a blizzard.

He served two tribes on the reservation:
the Eastern Shoshone people and the Arapaho.
He set about learning all he could about both tribes’ customs and beliefs,
believing that he could be more effective
if he knew and respected the people he wanted to minister to.
He also learned the Arapaho and Shoshone languages.
He eventually translated the gospel.

Roberts often said that his goal
was to help the Native Americans to be self supporting.
With this in mind,
he established two schools for Native children.
He earned the trust of the tribal leadership
and was often involved in their negotiations
with federal agents.
He dealt fairly with the people.
In turn, they called this white, European priest, “Elder Brother.”

A friend remarked this morning,
how odd it seemed to commemorate a man
for treating people fairly.
She was right.
But I’m struck by someone crossing the ocean
to purposely, consciously, and repeatedly
share God’s love and justice
with a forgotten and shoved-aside people.

Roberts lived into his call
as a priest of the high mountains,
the forgotten people,
the dry and desolate places.

We entered Lent with the image of Jesus in the wilderness.
He went there to fast, pray,
and be as transparent as he could to the will of God
speaking louder and louder,
to him and through him.

John Roberts went to the wilderness to seek and serve Christ in all people.

The compelling image running through both the Old Testament reading
and the Gospel for tonight
is the picture of water in the desert.

Moses prays,
“May my teaching drop like the rain,
my speech condense like the dew;
like gentle rain on grass,
like showers on new growth.
For I will proclaim the name of the Lord;
ascribe greatness to our God!”

He’s saying, My people, you are so thirsty.
Let my words transform and heal you.
God is your water. God is your rock.
There are no others.
There is no one else who can sustain you.

Jesus calls to the people,
“Let anyone who is thirsty come to me, and let the one who believes in me drink. As the scripture has said, ‘Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.’”

God is your water.
The water of life flows within you,
and out from you,
and all around you.
Hear my words, and let them heal you.
Drink deeply.
Soothe your thirst.
Let the river flow from you,
for other thirsty people.

What is wilderness?
I think of the canoe camping trips in the Cascade Mountains
that I took as a kid in Girl Scouts.
Cold glacial rivers, high volcanic peaks.
Tying our food up in a tree, away from bears.
No people,
other than our own pack of sunburned teen-agers,
and the college students who supposedly
were responsible for us.
You might think of Yosemite,
or wherever else you go when you want to get away.

We go to the wilderness because it is beautiful.
We go, to get out of the city.
We go because it’s fun.

Jesus went to the wilderness to uncover himself.
John Roberts went there to serve disenfranchised people,
in Christ’s name.
Jesus became water in the desert.
John Roberts brought that water,
as respect, love, and justice for God’s children
that humankind wanted to forget.

The wilderness that Roberts crossed an ocean to find,
is never really out of our vision.
We may not literally go to a reservation.
We don’t have to.
But neither do you have to find it
among the homeless people in Friendship Park,
or in our own Great Hall on a night
when we are hosting Safe Ground.
(Though if you feel called to this ministry,
please come.)
The wilderness is everywhere that people are
forgotten, hurting, lonely, or afraid.
We all react more strongly than we should,
to a perceived attack that wasn’t.
We all sometimes want things to be different than they are.
There are wild places in each of us,
living next to the places that are healed and whole and strong.

When you go to the wilderness,
bring with you love and compassion.
Take with you the truth
that every human being is beloved of God.
Carry with you the water of life.

Lent I

Luke 4:1-13

Who are you?
Do you know who you are?
You know your name.
You could tell me what you do all day.
Do you know why you’re in church today?
Do you know what you are doing on this earth?

The iconic image of Lent
is Jesus fasting and being tempted in the desert.
Our own forty days mimic this passage.
What is it about?
Why did Jesus need to go there?
Why do we?

Here’s the set-up:
We have Luke’s version of the Christmas story,
and everything that surrounds the birth of Jesus.
The writer pulls out all the special effects;
Jesus is not just any newborn baby.
Before he is born, the angel calls him king.
A few years later,
he goes to Jerusalem with his parents,
gets separated from them,
and when they finally find him,
he’s in the Temple debating with the rabbis.
He’s twelve.
Mary and Joseph ask him why he ran off like that.
He answers like a perfect adolescent:
“Duh! Where did you think I’d be?”
He knows, already, where he’s going.

The boy grows up.
Jesus is baptized, and the sky breaks open.
A dove descends upon him,
and the voice of God speaks.
“You are my Son, the Beloved, with you I am well pleased.”

We hear who he is.
Then we hear who he comes from.
The genealogy traces his ancestors paternally through Joseph,
Joseph’s father and grandfather,
all the way back to Adam,
created by God from the earth itself.

The story pivots where we heard today’s Gospel.
Jesus is tempted in the wilderness.
Jesus overcomes the adversary.
Only after that, does he start his ministry.

“Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil. He ate nothing at all during those days, and when they were over, he was famished.”

We’re not dealing with circumstances of birth anymore.
We’re beyond the foretold infant king,
the gifted child.
We’re not talking about what might potentially be.
This is the adult Jesus,
fully knowing that now is the time to embrace his destiny.
Fully prepared to test himself,
to listen to the voice that spoke to him in the river,
and to make himself ready for the life he’s being called to.

I grew up in the Northwest.
I grew up with seaweed tangled in my toes,
and mountains rising strong all around me.
I know the temperate rainforest.
I’ve never even been to the desert.
And I’ve been camping and hiking since I was a kid—
but I’ve never been in the wilderness alone
for longer than a day.
I can barely imagine what that must have been like.

He hadn’t eaten in a long, long time.
His body was weak and exhausted.
His mind was open for all kinds of visions.
It was hotter than fire during the day,
and freezing cold at night.
Insects crawled.
Birds screeched.
The wind howled, day and night.
Sometimes, that howl carried the voice of God.
Was it comforting, or terrifying?

This is what you do,
if you have the time to dedicate to it
and you want to be close to the Divine.
You go someplace alone.
You strip yourself down to nothing but the essentials.
You fast, you pray,
and you confront your own demons.
Even if it’s dawning on you,
that you are the incarnate Son of God.

Lent has been a season for fasting
since at least the second century.
It was increased from two or three days to 40
by the Council of Nicaea in the year 325.
We’ve been doing this for a long, long time.
In some places,
people fasted from all animal products excepting fish.
Others ate only one meal a day.
Roman Catholics still abstain from meat
on the Fridays of Lent, excepting fish.
Eastern Orthodox Christians still follow a vegan diet
throughout the season.
No animal products at all.

The early Christians connected the Lenten fast
with preparations for baptism.
They fasted, prayed, and studied the mysteries
that they would be allowed to enter into at the Easter vigil.
Penitents, those who were already baptized
but had committed some type of major sin
and been temporarily cut off from the sacraments,
fasted with them.
They also would be welcomed home at Easter.

We don’t have set rules for Lenten observance.
You might choose to give up something;
chocolate or alcohol or Facebook,
whatever it is that gets in the way
of your relationship with God.
You might choose to deepen that relationship intentionally
with a new practice:
journaling, walking, a new form of prayer.
I was on chemotherapy for a year;
I’ve recovered, but my body is not yet strong.
I’m doing physical things:
riding my bike for the first time in ages,
and doing lots of mindful breathing.
For me, it’s about claiming the Resurrection
in a body that was damaged to save itself.
Being grateful for life, and health.

The point is not deprivation for its own sake.
The point is to do what Jesus did,
in our own ways—
to dedicate ourselves to hearing and obeying
the voice of God in each of our lives.
This is the time to re-commit ourselves
to walking as closely with God
as our hearts and minds and bodies ever can.
This is the season to discipline ourselves,
to open our souls to the work of the Spirit.
This is the time to remember who we are
as Christians and as humans.
This is the time to build a shelter in the desert,
to watch and pray as the days grow longer,
to remember the sacrifice that came before the feast.

Choose your own disciplines.
What you do doesn’t matter—
it matters what you do through them.
Try new ones out, as you’re going.
Do what you need to do,
to reconnect with the purpose that God gives you.
Don’t go through this alone.
Share your practices,
so we can pray for each other.
We have to make it through Holy Week,
before we can get to Easter.
We will have the joy of the Resurrection.
We only walked into the desert last Wednesday.
Forty days is a long time.

Can you hear what God is whispering to you?
Do you feel the wind, on your skin?

Thinking about penitence

I did something that inconvenienced a friend, about a week ago. It wasn’t a huge deal, not hurtful or intentional. But it bothered him enough to tell me about it.

I apologized. His response stopped me in my tracks. He said, “I will always forgive you.”

Today is the second day of Lent. Yesterday, we had ashes rubbed on our foreheads, to remind us just how finite we human creatures are. We read the Litany of Penitence, confessing our own personal sins and those of our species. We were absolved, and assured of God’s gracious help and love. And because we know that we were loved and forgiven before the world began, we celebrated the Eucharist, the feast which proclaims our reconciliation with the Love that creates, redeems, and feeds us all.

I know that my friend loves me, wherever and however I am. That depth of forgiveness was one of the clues. I didn’t feel painfully guilty about the mistake I had made, and I wasn’t beating myself up for it. My apology was along the lines of, oops, sorry, this is how it happened, forgive me. The generosity in his response struck me silent.

“I will always forgive you.” Always. Whatever it is you might ever have done. I love you. This relationship cannot be broken.

I know that he meant it. And I know that humans are fragile. We say things we haven’t thought through. We forget things. We break promises, all the time.

God does not. I don’t think of my relationship with God in terms of penitence. I say the Confession, raising my voice with everyone around me. I mean it, but I don’t wail and gnash my teeth. I ask God for forgiveness, when I know where and how I’ve come up short. I don’t beg for it. Reconciliation is a part of this relationship. I celebrate the gift of this love. Day to day, I’m probably not mindful enough of the weight of it.

God loves us all more than we can ever imagine. Witness: we are alive. My recovery from cancer teaches me all I know about love. Christ’s resurrection means what it means to me, because my own bones vibrate. The work I do in faith is all for justice, inclusion, loving the most forgotten. The core of my relationship with God is in the pulse of my own blood through my veins. All I know about joy, liberation, and power lives here.

But we are in Lent. This is the season for thoughtfulness. This is the time to re-commit ourselves to walking as closely with God as our hearts and minds and bodies ever can. This is the season to discipline ourselves, to open our souls to the work of the Spirit. This is the time to remember who we are as Christians and as humans. This is the time to say out loud, “I can’t do this on my own; please help me.” This is the time to build a shelter in the desert, to remember the sacrifice that came before the feast.

I thank my friend for showing me a glimpse of the God who loves and forgives us always, who holds us close in relationship and who will not let us go. And I thank God for love itself, for life and every blessing.

Ash Wednesday

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

I’m diving into Lent with resurrection in my bones. Physically, spiritually... so very grateful.

A friend asked me on Sunday to help her with a project.  I wouldn't have immediately thought of myself, though I’m more than honored that she asked me and I’m glad to do it. I asked her why on earth she thought of me. Her first two answers made sense: she knows me and trusts me, and it would be good to get me seen around the diocese. Then she said, “You seem like you could do just about anything.”

I’m getting a lot of that. And I’m getting a lot of it at the cathedral. It’s almost like rock-star treatment; both gratifying and a little unnerving. People see a power in me that I’m just not used to. And I’m doing things here, that I’ve never done.

I know where the power, and the perception, come from. Part of it is the intersection of me with this community, at this point in our lives. People are ripe to take part in the outreach I’m doing. And I’m so ready to do it, and to stretch these leadership skills.

The source is as deep as my being. I’m a cancer survivor. The experience of diagnosis, surgery, chemotherapy—terror, hope, physical and emotional exhaustion, illness and recovery—is still so very fresh. I know about death and rebirth. Resurrection is the filter through which everything flows through me.

These people did not know me before I was diagnosed. Only one of them—the friend who asked me to help her—knew me throughout my chemotherapy year. We were in a colleague group together. She saw me every week, when I was doing well to get out of bed. She knew how much I loved the work I was doing, how deeply it formed me, and how I struggled to have the physical energy to do it.

Everyone else met me at the end of summer, when I missed street ministry like oxygen and was strong enough to start coming up here. (I live 45 minutes away.) They see me now, when I'm alive and awake and my body is well. They don’t know where I came from.

But I do. And I know the gifts that cancer gave me. I remember the fearfulness I lived in, before fear for my life kicked that cage to the curb. I was so unsure of myself, so tentative about everything. So caught up in unhealed wounds; so unbelieving. Then I was diagnosed with a life-threatening illness. I had to be strong. I had to feel real fear, and walk through it. I had to ally my whole self with my body. I had to trust in my community’s prayers, and in God from the very beginning. I chose to go where cancer took me; to let the crucible forge me into what I have become. But I knew all along that I had no real choice.  I had to be open to it.  Giving in to the panic would have killed me.  To walk through the experience with my eyes open, feeling the fear and the hope and the love and letting them transform me, was to choose life.

Living through all of that, and emerging whole and healthy, gives me a sense that I can only articulate as, "I am alive now."

It’s not urgency. It is incarnate possibility.

My wings are still wet. But they are no longer broken. In this season, I’m going to stretch them as far as I can. And learn to believe in the power God has given me, in this life that is mine.

I'm starting Lent early.

Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil. He ate nothing at all during those days, and when they were over, he was famished. The devil said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.” Jesus answered him, “It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone.’”

Then the devil led him up and showed him in an instant all the kingdoms of the world. And the devil said to him, “To you I will give their glory and all this authority; for it has been given over to me, and I give it to anyone I please. If you, then, will worship me, it will all be yours.” Jesus answered him, “It is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.’”

Then the devil took him to Jerusalem, and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you’, and, ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’”

Jesus answered him, “It is said, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’” When the devil had finished every test, he departed from him until an opportune time.

--Luke 4:1-13

All kinds of things are waking up, vocationally. I’m doing work I love, with the cathedral and the homeless community. The call has gotten louder: all I want to do is go be a priest to them. I haven’t been here long enough to start a formal process, but the feedback I’m getting is completely positive, and my clergy supports me. We’re talking about things that I’m incredibly excited about, both for right now and in the future.

And I’m going internally bananas. For over a year, no one told me I spoke too fast. I couldn’t; I was either on interferon or healing from it. I was exhausted all the time. But I was talking to one of my priests the other night, and I caught myself stuttering. Then I went to the Catechumenate after dinner. I organize Thursday night dinners (we feed homeless people as well as parishioners), so I stayed late to help clean up. I walked in, in the middle of lectio. The passage was the above quotation, for the first Sunday in Lent. The leader asked what God was telling us through this story. My answer couldn’t have been clearer:

Keep calm, stay grounded, pray, breathe, keep at it.

And so that’s what I’m going to do.

I suck at meditation. I’ve never understood the point of counting my breaths. And I’m no better at centering prayer. Attempting to hold one word or image just opens me up to associations. My brain lunges against every restraint, exactly because I’m trying to hold it still.

I can, however, breathe. And if I’m not legalistic about it—if I don’t label it something and then try to live up to that—I’ll feel free enough to let myself flow into it.

I love everything I’m doing—but I need to find my center. A friend taught me a visualization, years ago. Someone taught it to her, when she was learning to sing:

Imagine yourself as a tree. Stand, preferably barefoot on the earth (but in shoes on the floor, if you need to). Breathe up from your feet, through your legs, into your diaphragm, out. Draw water up from the earth, into your roots, through your body, out into the atmosphere and let go of it; let it fall again as rain. Keep breathing, until you are where you need to be.

I didn’t do it when I was sick; I didn’t have the balance to stand still alone. Now, just writing it out makes me breathe deeply, gives me space, gives me life.

Giving up chocolate is missing the point. Lent isn’t a punishment; it’s an invitation to remember who we are. I’ve kept prayer journals in previous seasons; more or less faithfully. Last year I tried to be mindful of the moment, to pay attention in conversations and not wander everywhere. I saw how distractible I was (and am); I’m not sure I learned how to solve it. What I need is to say to God with my breath, my intention, my body,

I exist, because of you. I am yours. Do with me, what you will.

What needs to happen, in me and for the world, can only happen in that place. And I can’t even imagine what will sprout there.

I’ve struggled with talking fast for... practically ever. But right now, I’m thankful that I have this physical cue. And I have experience when it wasn’t an issue. I remember centeredness. I know what it is to be grounded. I don’t need the fatigue that went with that. I can find the calm that will keep me in control of my body. I can trust God to hold the light where I am going.

Where is Jesus?

Here.

Sacramento's Trinity Cathedral offers haven to homeless

Pics to be added later; I'm in a rush.  I love getting good press for what we do!

CAPITAL'S TRINITY CATHEDRAL HAS UNIQUE PROGRAM OF SHELTER, FOOD

By Jennifer Garza

jgarza@sacbee.com The Sacramento Bee

Published: Thursday, Jan. 28, 2010 - 12:00 am
Page 1B

The homeless people who walk through the doors of Trinity Cathedral in midtown Sacramento have faith in the church, the only one in the area to offer them a hot meal and a roof over their heads.

Since mid-December, the homeless have escaped the wet and cold for a warm sleeping bag on the floor of the church hall twice a week. A slice of heaven on earth, said one.

"You have no idea how much that means," said Ronnie Holiday, who has been on the streets for years. "They're going to be blessed for doing this, I'll tell you that."

No other church runs a program like the one at Trinity Cathedral, homeless advocates said.

To abide by the city's camping ordinance, the Episcopal church stays open only two nights in a row during rainy weather.

"Is it legal? I don't know," said Jerry Pare, operations manager. "We're doing it because it's the right thing to do."

He said church leaders notified neighbors about their plans and have not heard any complaints.

City officials said the shelter doesn't violate the camping ordinance. "Because they are being sheltered inside, the outside camping ordinance does not apply," said Amy Williams, a city spokeswoman, in an e-mail.

At Trinity, parishioners donate money for food. On a recent night, they fed nearly 100 at a dinner prepared in the church kitchen – spaghetti, salad, bread, and cookies for dessert – followed the next morning by a breakfast of hot cereal and raisin toast.

"Jesus said take care of the poor, it's not much more complicated than that," said Kirstin Paisley, a church volunteer. "This makes the Gospel more real to me."

Church leaders became concerned about people sleeping on the street as temperatures dipped in December. They met with the leaders of Safeground, which organizers call a movement by homeless people for homeless people.

The "safe ground" campaign began last spring after more than 100 people were forced to leave a tent city on property owned by the Sacramento Municipal Utility District.

Trinity Cathedral is helping fill the void.


"What they've done is wonderful," said David Moss, a retired United Methodist pastor who now volunteers with Safe Ground. "They've given us the chance to show other churches that we can be responsible."

Other congregations are considering similar programs, said Moss. Some are reluctant because they already host homeless families in a program called Family Promise. He said others have expressed concerns about their neighbors, property and safety.

"I understand they may be a little afraid of the commitment," Moss said. "We are asking them to open their doors to 100 people they don't know."


The Safe Ground organizers rely on teamwork. Every afternoon at 3 p.m, they meet at Loaves & Fishes to determine where the homeless will sleep that night. "There's safety in numbers," said Chuck Rogers, who cooks for the group.

If it's raining, the group heads to the church. Once there, organizers get to work. Some work at the sign-in desk and others in the kitchen. Most, however, wait for dinner, which is typically served around 6 p.m. At 8, sleeping bags are handed out. Lights are out by 9. Women sleep in the classrooms upstairs and men sleep on the floor in the hall.

The next morning, the group eats at 6 a.m. Some clean the bathrooms and the facilities. They are gone in an hour.

Participants must abide by the rules. No drinking. No drugs. No fighting. No exceptions.

"Everyone looks out for each other," said Trish Allen.

Rogers, who said he was laid off from his job at Wal-mart two year ago, praises Trinity Cathedral.

"So many people see right through us or they see us as outcasts. They don't," he said, "and that means a lot."

"Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing."

Another post on CrossTalk, inspired by the homeless people I'm so graced to be able to work with.

More blogging from Trinity

I've been pondering grace. And I'm nowhere near done.

Epiphany I -- The Baptism of Jesus

I preached today at the 12:45 service.

Isaiah 43:1-7
Luke 3:15-17; 21-22

There is so much I could say about baptism.
This ancient ritual is at the center
of who we are as Christians.
This water and oil,
and these ancient words,
have sustained our communities for two thousand years.
There are so many layers of meaning here.

I could give a history lesson.
I could tell you how the rite of baptism
has evolved in the church and before it.
I could talk to you about ancient Jewish ritual baths,
and of how the church picked up on the idea of initiation
in Jesus’ own baptism.
I could point out that we know absolutely nothing
about the adult Jesus before he was baptized in the river Jordan—
and every story the church tells
about the ministry of Jesus
comes after that dove descended on him.
How baptism obviously prepared him,
in some way,
for everything he did and taught and became.

I could tell you about the early Church—
the catechumenate periods that lasted three years
before you were allowed to be present for Communion.
I could tell you about the conversation on Facebook
that began when I said that baptism didn’t make me want to talk;
I only wanted to be.
How friends of mine wrote about existential faith,
living into revelation,
being loved because God is love.

I could tell you about the time
I fell out of a kayak into Lake Michigan,
held on to the boat in fear for my life--
really thought I was going to die if I let go--
and really understood that nature,
and God,
are bigger than me.

See? There’s just so much meaning here.
So much to explore about what we do,
and who we are.
But one thing caught my attention.
It got under my skin all week.
Did you feel uneasy too?

Isaiah writes this:

When you walk through fire you shall not be burned,
and the flame shall not consume you.

It’s comforting, right? Reassuring.
God’s presence is stronger than any suffering.
We have nothing to fear, ever.
You hear him say, “Stay calm. I am with you.”
It’s going to be okay.

And here’s John the Baptist:

“He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.”

Yikes. Doesn’t that just scare you silly?
I want to go hide under my bed.
Wake me when the Apocalypse is over.
I don’t want to be burned up.
What could the Good News possibly be?

I confess that I don’t really get our friend John.
I know a lot of people who camp by the river, in Sacramento.
Sometimes they have dinner here.
They’ll be sleeping in our Great Hall, tomorrow and Tuesday.
They all have wilder hair than I do.
They wash their clothes when they can.
Some of them know the Bible inside out,
and sometimes they preach to me.
But I think of them as my friends.
None of them have ever yelled at me;
much less threatened me with holy fire.
John is just a little too out there.
He sounds unstable.
He’s not someone I think I could talk to.

But maybe I haven’t been paying attention.
There’s another way to hear the Baptist’s words.

Wheat is healthy, and life-giving.
Wheat is the foundation of bread.
Bread that the Israelites baked in a hurry,
and carried out of Egypt, ahead of Pharaoh.
Bread that fed the five thousand.
Bread that Jesus broke for his disciples.
Bread that has been broken for us
at this altar
for two thousand years;
bread that we will eat again in a few minutes.
Bread that feeds our bodies, and our souls.

Wheat gives strength to a body,
and to a community.
Chaff is the protective covering over each individual grain.

Not a defective piece.
Not some part of you that isn’t good enough.
Chaff is a shield.
It’s a shell that the grain grows,
to keep itself safe from predators.
But you don’t need to protect yourself
from the love of God that wraps around you.

Paul writes in the letter to the Romans,
“Neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

This is the power of the love of God.
This is the force of God’s longing for us.
We are loved from the moment we are thought of.
We are wanted. We are treasured.
God is love.
We are God’s beloved.
There is nothing we can do, ever,
that will put us outside of God’s love.
Baptism is our acceptance of that love,
for ourselves and for our children.
Baptism is a public confession of our faith
in the God who became human.
Who lived with us, and died, and rose again for us.
Baptism is when we say, Yes, back.
Yes, you are our God.
Yes, we are your people.
Yes, we will be your body.
Yes.

One of my seminary textbooks says
that baptism is not an insurance policy for salvation—
it’s a commitment to a radically counter-cultural life.*
We promise to love, in the face of everything.
We say that we will live the life
of love, service, and justice
that God calls us to—
and we will do it, with God’s help.
It’s a commitment we need to be reminded of again,
and again,
and so we make it each time we welcome a new Christian.

Our prayer book says that the rite of baptism is indissoluble.
It’s not about being perfect.
You are still you,
when you come out of that water.
You still have the same good and bad habits.
You still make mistakes.
You do beautiful things—
and you still make harmful choices.
You belong to God.
You will always be loved.

This is what happens when we baptize someone.
We pray for them,
and make promises to support them.
We affirm our faith in the God who created us,
redeemed us,
and loves us still.
We thank God for the gift of water,
and for being present with us
through all our people’s memory.
We tell the story of our creation and redemption,
through the symbol of water.
We pour this holy water over them
in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
We anoint them with holy oil.
And we mark them as Christ’s own for ever.

This is who you are.
And you will never be otherwise.
Baptism is a scary thing to do.
It’s a spiritual cliff-jumping.
A life given to God is not necessarily predictable.
Your faith can take you to places that you never thought you’d go,
sometimes to places you don’t want to go.
Baptism is also the most loving thing you can do for someone.
They are, as you are, as I am,
Christ’s own. For ever.

We will each of us walk through fire.
I had a health scare
that brought me face-to-face with the limiations of my own body,
even as it showed me, in screaming color,
the limitlessness of God’s healing power,
whether or not I was cured. (And I have been.)
Many people I know are facing financial crises.
You can still be hurt.
You will still be afraid.
But you are loved beyond all human understanding.
There is nothing you can do,
to be outside of that love.
And you do not need to try to protect yourself
from the God who created you,
and knows you,
and loves you.
All of those protective shells will be burned away.
They’re not bad.
We just don’t need them.

God says to us,

You are my beloved Child. In you I am well pleased.

Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by name, you are mine.

This is the gift in every baptism.
This is what belonging means.
We are loved beyond all our imagining.
God is with us,
and in us,
and for us.
And all that’s required of us,
through the promises we make in the Baptismal Covenant,
is to love God,
and love one another.

I will, with God’s help.


*Charles P. Price and Louis Weil, Liturgy for Living, rev. ed. (Harrisburg PA: Morehouse, 2000), 69.

Blogging elsewhere

I've been busy with my church community, hosting homeless people overnight when the weather is wet or cold. I asked for and received access to the cathedral blog; my stories are here and here.

Pray for all who sleep outside tonight, and every night.  And pray that we may have the courage to help them, in any way that we can.

Flurry of busyness

Yeah, I know; it’s December. But I’m not talking about shopping.

I’ve spent three nights, in the past week, sleeping over at my church. We’ve been hosting members of the Safe Ground community—homeless people in Sacramento who are trying both to not freeze this winter, and to overturn the city anti-camping ordinance. Today, I’m meeting with the man who is essentially the group’s chaplain, and a pastor from another church to ask him if that congregation would be willing to host as well. Speaking for myself, I’d do this every night—but it needs to be an ecumenical effort, and we all know that. I could testify all over town about how amazing (and organized!) Safe Ground is, how the neighbors didn’t squawk and the building’s just fine, and how our own community--overnight hosts, cooks, clergy and staff--was fed by hosting them.

I’m also working on getting a project up and running the first week of January. And I was gone for two weeks, critical in retrospect. I was babying a cold for one week, and then I went to the Ranch. I learned as soon as I came back—and slept that night in the Great Hall—that my heart’s work is here, and I can’t leave again for awhile. Not only do I feel guilty for missing too much, but I miss the things that I need to be part of.

I want to be reflective in this space, but right now I just can’t. I’m feeling my own responsibilities heavily, and what I’ve set for myself scares me (though I’m totally committed to doing it, and I know I’ll have help). I’m also agape at the kindom of God.

Stretching my muscles

I’m just out of the shower, this day after Thanksgiving, excited to write for the first time in ages.

To begin with, I didn’t really get a Thanksgiving on the day itself. (I got one a week ago, at the cathedral, with the homeless people I’ve been getting to know.) Which is, and was, completely okay with me. I’m still living with A., in Stockton. This is her mom’s holiday, and her mom wants that time with her, to herself. I knew I’d be on my own either for doing something or going somewhere. I could have easily wrangled an invitation either to Sac or the Bay Area; I would have only needed to ask. (Friends in those places, don’t feel guilty.) I’ve been to lots of potlucks and orphan Thanksgivings, and they’re always fun. But I didn’t want to drive. And I did want a day and a night to myself. I will get all the festivity of Advent and Christmas. I lack for nothing.

I didn’t do a damn thing, other than bake the bread that we need anyway, and that I customarily keep us in. I stayed in my pajamas. I watched trash TV online. And I guess I must have incubated, because I woke today with my sleeves rolled up.

I haven’t posted anything at all on this blog since my birthday, and that one LOLcat hardly counted. I just haven’t been in this space. I haven’t known really what to write. I finished seminary, and I finished chemo. I have these huge, life-defining events behind me. I’m engaged in the life I have right now, and I love it and am challenged by it—but it doesn’t consume me in the same way. I’m not in the tsunami anymore. I’m not trying just to not drown.

I wrote about the “post-nuclear life” a year ago, or thereabouts; I know it was last fall. I was still in the oh-my-God-I-had-cancer space, sick from chemo with more time ahead than behind me. I was still caught by surprise; I’d been well and now I wasn’t. I knew (and know) that cancer could recur any time. I knew that I’d carry that reality with me. And I knew that my life would be different.

What I’m writing sounds like the economic fears I have now. “Can I get my head above water? What if I can’t?” But it really is different. I have support; I have housing and food and my basic bills taken care of. I’m physically miles and leagues and oceans better; I still get tired, and even still dizzy sometimes—but I have more energy and power than I’ve had for a year and a half. I’m getting myself back.

I feel now like, “Okay, the wave destroyed the island and everything I thought I knew. The riptide’s washed back out again. The ocean looks normal. But I know that I’m not.”

And I don’t know how to relate to this blog right now. This is holy ground. I can’t do memes, or anything else that’s totally inconsequential. That’s what Facebook is for. But I don’t want to give it up completely.

I woke this morning, needing to shore myself up. I need some sort of discipline, and I need writing to be part of it. I have a routine, for three days out of seven—but I’m ready for more. And I’m missing the spiritual practices that come with living in a seminary community.

Advent is the beginning of the new year. It’s time to start over, to focus, to re-commit. I’ve got good work, and the potential for funding it: I asked at the cathedral if I could start a soup kitchen. I got a resounding, “Go for it.” We’re next to River City Food Bank; there’s need in the neighborhood. And throughout my recuperation, I’ve discovered a knack for baking—and an appreciation for food, wholeness, community, and healing. There’s an obvious connection between the sacramental and the physical, and I can’t break and bless the bread yet. But I can do this. I’m not proposing that I myself cook for a hundred—but I know that I can feed people. And I can put together a team that’s willing to help.

I can give this the commitment I want to, if I can fund myself. I can’t simply volunteer full-time indefinitely. So I’m learning about fundraising, and researching grants.

All of that is good—though I definitely feel like I’m out on a limb, I have the cathedral staff’s support. People are really wanting to reach out to the homeless and the food-insecure. (Seriously, that’s a word now.) I walked in wanting to change the world, and they think well of me. They see a feisty survivor who knows what her work is. And I know that I can do this, if I stay with it.

It’s keeping the commitment, that’s my challenge. I’ve got the time. I need to build more structure into my schedule. I need routines, disciplines, specific accountability. I drive up there three times a week, now: once for church at the cathedral; once for a meeting of the Sacramento Homeless Organizing Committee (Safe Ground leadership wing) in the morning and Trinity staff meeting in the afternoon, and once for a Safe Ground meeting and River City volunteer shift. I’m definitely active and engaged. But I have more of myself now, and I need to give more of it. I need to structure the time that I’m not on the road, or with people. When I’m by myself and I could either Facebook or find funding, I need to make the right choices. And I need to stay as connected as I can with God. I need to spend some focused time every day in prayer, and I’m not doing it.

Maybe I’ll start doing daily Morning Prayer in Advent, and keep it up through the church year. I like that idea more, the longer I think about it. And maybe Evening Prayer as well.

The point is just to start, and stay with the connection more than the specific practice. Once I get walking, I can’t help but go somewhere. If I start with ancient words, and end up making rosaries, God is praised.

I don’t know what that means for this blog. I know it would be useful in the public domain, if I tell the story about how some church people in Sacramento start feeding anyone who shows up. For myself, I miss the whole process of thinking things out as I’m writing. And I miss the connection with the part of myself that starves when I don’t do this. So, expect to see more of me.

Blessed be the One who creates, loves, sustains, and feeds us all.

Birthday!

see more Lolcats and funny pictures